


You and Me

by hpdm4ever, MessiFangirl (hpdm4ever)



Category: Football RPF, Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Attraction, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, FC Barcelona, First Kiss, La Liga, M/M, Ramessi, Real Madrid CF, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2020-12-07 16:02:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20978603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpdm4ever/pseuds/hpdm4ever, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpdm4ever/pseuds/MessiFangirl
Summary: "I've been thinking," Sergio says slowly, turning in his chair to face Messi.Messi mirrors him, hands cupped around his mug as he bends to take another sip. "About?" he asks, swallowing his coffee and sighing in contentment. "This?""This, and you," Sergio allows, balancing his mug on his knee. He studies Messi intently, trying to figure out what he's thinking and failing miserably. That's the thing about Messi--he always seems completely unreadable. Still, Sergio's not finished. "You, and me," he adds, taking a breath.Messi just blinks at him, and it's so damn annoying. "Oh?"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lenilein](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenilein/gifts), [yulin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yulin/gifts), [stillgold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillgold/gifts).

> I wrote this in May and then never posted it, hope you enjoy xo

Sergio raises a glass to Luka, same as everyone else at the table. It's his duty as captain, but he would have done it in any case. "Congratulations, Lukita. I wish you all the happiness in the world!" he says proudly, tipping his glass. The rest of them echo his toast, sipping their champagne and clapping with excitement. Soulmates coming together is a beautiful thing, and it deserves to be celebrated by everyone. Sergio claps too. He can say that he's honestly happy for Luka. That sentiment, at least, isn't fake.

His smile after the toast is, however, and there's not much that Sergio can do about it.

He hates soulmates. Well, shit, he doesn't hate soulmates. But he hates the topic. He hates the process.

He hates that you're just supposed to go about your business until the words start burning on your arm underneath your band... and you realize the person you're speaking to is actually the person you'll spend the rest of your life with.

Why can't it be simpler?

Why can't it be a name? A first name, a last name, a nickname--Sergio doesn't think he's asking for the world, here. Hell, he'd even be willing to take just initials. Sure, it would be hard to track someone down like that, especially with so many people in the world, but it would be something!

Or, okay, if it can't be a name, why can't it be the very first words your soulmate ever speaks to you? That would be fun, right? Building a relationship from that first, exciting moment?

But no, instead it is random words: random words that start burning at a random moment in time when you coincidentally say them to each other.

Luka had known Ivan for years before they'd had their moment. They'd been teammates and friends and seen each other countless times. Why wasn't it until this week that they said the magic words? Why not at one of el clásicos? Why not at the World Cup? Why did it finally happen during some lunch on an unimportant Friday morning?

Luka had described it with breathtaking happiness, smile ear to ear, how they'd both ripped off their armbands in glee as soon as they realized what was happening. They'd covered their words almost immediately after, of course, as was proper. And as far as Sergio knew, nobody else knew what the words said, which was fairly typical and fair enough. Some people shared their words with family and friends, though it was more popular to keep it all private. But now that they knew they were soulmates, they'd buy matching bands with their names to let everyone know they were taken.

So yeah, Sergio was happy for Luka. And Rakitić too.

But soulmates fucking sucked.

*****

Sergio had never shown anyone what was on his arm. Not even Iker. Not because he cared about privacy or any of that rot. Iker knew far worse things about him (and often had photographic proof of such as well). No, Sergio kept this to himself. Mostly because he was embarrassed. Embarrassed and hurt and bitter and angry. His soul mark was a joke. Even now, he can't stand to look at it, but he does anyway. It's easy to push up the band. He barely even needs a typical soul mark band--a fucking rubber band would do.

There, right on the inner part of his left wrist was one small word in black ink: ‘Yes.’

That's it.

That's fucking it.

That's all he has to go on.

He's lost count of how many times someone has said, "Yes" to him over the years. When he was younger, he'd perk up and wait, wait for the burning to happen, wait for the other person to look up in surprise, wait for that magic fucking moment where it would all come together. Except, of course, it never happened. Sergio would be left looking up like an idiot, gaping unattractively in hope.

Now he doesn't wait to see what the other person will do.

He just goes about his life.

He's not the only one to do so. Finding your soulmate is a tricky business that can take decades--and that's even if it ever happens at all--and some people don't even bother these days. Sergio can't really blame them. What's the point of staying alone and miserable for years when you could be fucking your way through your teammates?

Well, that's not *exactly* what Sergio does.

It's what the press says he does.

But it's not what he does.

Sure, he has a little fun here and there. And sure, some of those people willing to have fun are his teammates. But some of them are just friends, and a few are possibly rivals... but everyone is on board and everyone knows what's what. It's about passing time and finding comfort and enjoying themselves. Pretending that they aren't all just trying to wait until they find their special destined one. Because in the end, Sergio does hate the system, but he's not a quitter.

One day he'll find his soulmate.

Until then, though, he needs to pass the time somehow.

*****

Piqué understands everything.

Sergio doesn't know exactly what Piqué's words are, but he thinks there aren't many of them either. Nothing that gives him a clue, or gives him hope. That's only a guess because whenever the topic comes up he looks anguished and tired and depressed. His eyes hide nothing--two big blue pools of pain--and it's largely why Sergio tries to be a little nicer to him nowadays.

When they sleep together, it's definitely more for comfort than it is to scratch any itch. That's not to say it's not enjoyable... but it's definitely not about love.

Neither of them will ever speak about soulmates, of course, because they're likeminded, but when they're in bed afterward in the darkness Sergio can hear the noise of Piqué taking his band off. Maybe just to give it some air, maybe because he's uncomfortable sleeping with it. Sometimes when he's really, really drunk, Sergio imagines Piqué tracing whatever words he has with tentative fingers and wonders if he should do the same, wonders if maybe he and Piqué are ever meant to find their matches at all.

That's the thing about the words--you never know when they're going to come to life.

But they're not in love, for sure, and Sergio doesn't think they ever could fall in love, either. They're too alike. So friends, yes, lovers, yes, but soulmates, no. And they're both on the same page about it. Well, they don't talk about it, they talk about other things, about anything else, really. About the matches or the food or the gossip going on in the locker room.

They both know about Luka and Rakitić, so they avoid that while they search for conversation, though it floats in the air around them.

"And Leo's been pissy ever since Sevilla," Piqué rattles on the next morning as he's scrambling eggs in Sergio’s kitchen. "I swear to god, you'd think he'd been forbidden to even touch a ball. But all we're saying is that he can't be scrimmaging until the bone heals a little, you know?" He flicks his eyes up at Sergio. "I'm adding cheese to these and you're just going to have to deal with it."

Sergio waves a hand. He'll eat whatever Piqué makes at this point and run off the calories later. "Fine, fine. You're the chef. For now."

Piqué splutters something about always being the chef, but Sergio's daydreaming. Well, not really, but he's thinking back to when Messi had broken his arm. Everyone and their mother had seen the replays, or rather, anyone who followed football and paid attention to how Barcelona's season was going. Sergio had naturally watched and wondered if Messi was going to make it to el clásico...

The thing about Messi going down, though, was that Sergio wasn't thinking about the impact the injury was going to have on the game. As Real Madrid's captain, that's what he should have been thinking of... But he wasn't. Instead, he was thinking about the band covering Messi's soul mark. Whenever Messi played, the band attracted Sergio's gaze the most. It was irritatingly large and that grated on Sergio's nerves.

To be fair, Sergio was more jealous than anything else.

Of course, the great Lionel Messi would get to have some long luxurious sentence that probably gave him some giant clue as to who his soulmate was. The band covered near his whole arm, from wrist to elbow. It looked more like a brace than the typical armband, and Sergio hated it.

Fucking Messi.

Some people had all the luck in the world.

*****

El clásico comes and goes, Sergio fights with Piqué as usual and then they get over it. There's still a lot more of the season to go. He tries to stay in shape so that they can finish strong, and that means more time in the gym, unfortunately.

Now, when Neymar matches with Mbappé, the news starts trending everywhere in the world. Madrid is no exception.

Sergio happens to be biking in the gym at that very moment, and he watches disinterestedly as an old dubbed rerun of 'Gilligan's Island' cuts to a very excited reporter who can barely get the story out in his haste. Marcelo is beside Sergio, laughing a bit. "Oh, man, thank fucking god."

Sergio doesn't really care, wishing 'Gilligan's Island' would come back on. It's actually a funny episode and it's making him forget how much he hates biking. "Why?"

Marcelo waves a hand, slowing his peddling down until it's something more like a leisurely bike ride through town as opposed to an intense workout. "I half thought it would be Dani. Alves, that is," he specifies, laughing at Sergio's look of displeasure. "See, exactly."

"Why would you think they'd match?" Sergio asks, not really wanting to know, but unable to stop himself. Maybe it's the fact that Luka's so happy that makes him curious. He slows his peddling too, trying to catch his breath a bit as he takes a few sips of his water. "Mbappé's more his age. Makes more sense I guess."

Marcelo's smiling. "You know that sometimes these things don't really make sense, right? I mean, there's been a lot of tension there between them. Things weren't going so smoothly for awhile. I don't even know if they really like each other that much. They say opposites attract, though Ney had a better relationship with Dani, and I think they were messing around a little, too. Thought that would tip it over into soulmate territory. Sometimes that happens." He leans over to steal Sergio's water and take a gulp. "Although, Dani always thought that Ney and Messi would match. I guess we were all wrong."

Sergio makes a face, taking his water back. "Gimme," he says petulantly. He thinks back to Piqué. "Sexual activity doesn't mean anything. They've been doing studies on that forever and never found evidence to suggest it has any impact on the actual matching." He realizes he sounds like he follows those sorts of things and instantly smooths out his expression into something that looks like nonchalance.

Marcelo glances down at Sergio's covered wrist and his smile changes into something kinder. "Yeah, but--"

Sergio immediately looks away and starts peddling faster again. "Eh, whatever," he mutters, feeling his heart rate start to pick up again. "When are they gonna switch back to 'Gilligan's Island' is what I want to know. I don't care about whatever's happening in Paris."

And he doesn't.

*****

Unfortunately, there must be some vibe being sent out that says he wants to talk to people about their love lives, because Cris calls him to blather on about Paulo Dybala like Sergio's been asking for details nonstop. To be clear, Sergio has not been asking for anything of the sort and had no plans to do so in the future at all. Unless, "How's it going?" counts.

"I think he's the one," Cris confides, and Sergio can practically hear him grinning into the phone. "You should see him, should see how he looks at me. God, he's the cutest little thing."

"You know you can just, tap that," Sergio finally says, when it's clear he is going to have to participate in this conversation. "I know you've never been about that kind of lifestyle," he says, waving a hand in front of his face like Cris can actually see him do it. "But you've only known him a few months, so I don't think he can possibly--"

Cris laughs and Sergio groans.

"Look," Sergio says, barely willing to have this conversation, "Luka knew Rakitić for years before they matched. So if you really think that Dybala is the one, you might have to wait quite a long time to find out. You know?" He doesn't really want Cris to be pining and miserable and lonely, but he doesn't know how else to say it. And again, he doesn't want to be talking about this at all.

"Ah, ah," Cris interrupts whatever else Sergio was going to say in the hopes of changing the subject. "But did you hear about Mbappé and Neymar? They were teammates for what? A year or two? And they just clicked." Cris sighs. "I can't wait until it's my turn. Can you imagine matching when you younger? At this point, we're old bachelors, Sese."

Sergio rubs his eyes and thinks about having some ice cream. "At this rate, I'm going to *die* an old bachelor," he growls, a bit of his bitterness slipping out. "I like the way my life is," he adds as he tries to recover.

Cris just laughs. "You never know when it's going to happen. It could be any day now for either of us. And you can say what you want, but I'm feeling rather positive about all of it for the first time in a while. Wouldn't hurt for you to do the same."

Then Sergio thinks about calling Fernando and asking if he has any plans to come to Spain in the near future. Piqué's closer though, and always willing...

Does it count as a booty call if...

Never mind, it's a booty call.

*****

The next season starts and Sergio's determined that it's going to be their year. He informs Piqué of this gleefully, which results in a few ridiculous arguments, but they end up making up right before they play against each other again. The problem is...

Piqué understands everything until he understands nothing.

"You know," Piqué says, even as the sweat is cooling on their bodies and Sergio's curling toward him in contentment, "I think that Cesc is my soulmate." He sounds so sad and forlorn like he's wrestled with himself about this for ages and ages and only now can bring himself to speak of it. Like it's some great tragic love story and that even voicing it will cause the world to fall apart.

Sergio rolls his eyes and tries to suffocate himself with his pillow. "I regret inviting you here," he mumbles into the fabric, only half sorry that Piqué doesn't hear him clearly. Because Piqué was supposed to be the one that got it, the one who was going distract him from all this nonsense, not bring it up in the worst way possible before a big game.

Piqué sighs, and it's a giant heavy sigh. "Please, Sese," he says, grabbing the pillow and yanking it off Sergio's face. "Please, I'm sorry, I know you hate this. I know. If anyone knows, it's me. But I need help, and I don't know what to do." He tosses the pillow across the room and when Sergio blinks at him in astonishment, he says, "And yes, sorry, I'll go get that in a minute."

"What do you expect me to tell you? Or do for you?" Sergio asks, rubbing his face tiredly. "It's not like I have a whole lot of experience in this area. Obviously. And I can't exactly wave a wand and magically make you soulmates. As far as I understand it, you either are or you aren't. And you have to fucking wait to see what happens. We all do." He drops his hand to his side and peers at Piqué in the darkness. "That's just how it works. It’s the way it is. It’s the way it's always been!"

"Leo thinks that Cesc is my soulmate too," Piqué protests, as if that's going to make a difference in this situation.

"Gerard," Sergio says, "while I am never going to care what Messi says or thinks, if you think Cesc is your soulmate, then why the fuck are you still sleeping with me?" He's asking honestly, as a friend, as a teammate, as a fuck buddy. "Why don't you go over to wherever the hell he is, what is it Monaco now? And just talk to him until you manage to stumble upon the magic words? If you say them he’ll be stuck with you, so...?"

"Do you think that would work?" Piqué asks excitedly, his wallowing put on pause as he considers that idea. "Because I could go after the game tomorrow? Just show up at his house? Just start talking to him constantly about anything and everything? Seriously, do you think that--"

"I don't care. But go get my pillow."

*****

It shouldn't annoy him, but it does. Of course, it does.

Messi's standing there in line with his teammates in the tunnel, waiting until it's time to go out onto the pitch. That should be fine, shouldn't really bother Sergio at all other than that fact that it's Messi so Sergio's already a little uneasy about stopping him on the field. But Messi's not doing anything out of the ordinary, really, except he's playing with that annoying armband stretched out from his wrist to his elbow. It's almost like he's making sure it's fastened correctly and tightly so that there's not a chance of it coming loose during the game.

Sergio rolls his eyes.

All this stupid soulmate shit going around and he doesn't want to think about it for one more minute than is necessary. He knows he shouldn't say anything--especially not before the match--but the reminder that Messi has this long descriptive soul mark spread out across his skin just rankles. Sergio's own band is barely the width of two fingers, and still, it's able to cover up his pathetic soul mark. "Such a show-off," he mutters, half to himself and half to Messi as he passes him to head to the front.

"What?" Messi asks, looking confused, dropping his hand from his armband and trying to play innocent. "Me?" After a second though, he looks back down at his arm and goes back to tugging at the fabric nervously. His nails are bitten down to nubs and there's dirt underneath half of them. And a bandage on his thumb.

"Yes, you, idiot," Sergio says, turning back even though he shouldn't. Marcelo is beckoning him and so is Keylor, while Piqué waves at him excitedly. Sergio gestures for them to wait. He points at Messi's armband instead. “Seriously, though, what the hell is your problem, Messi? Are you compensating for something, huh?" he asks, gritting his teeth. "Can't be like everyone else? Have a normal-sized soul mark? Have a normal-sized band? How come you have to make everything into such a big deal like some diva?"

As a rant goes, it's a stupid one.

Maybe he just wants to unsettle Messi before he goes out onto the pitch.

Messi takes a step back, his hand flattening over his armband protectively like he thinks Sergio is going to try to rip it off. "Wait. Huh?" He tilts his head and his cheeks start to color like he's embarrassed. Very embarrassed. "Ramos, I don't think we should talk about--".

"Oh, I don't give a fuck what it says," Ramos says dismissively, interrupting him. "Never mind." He just shakes his head, realizing he’s making a big deal out of nothing and looks like an idiot. Some of his teammates are starting to look down their way and Piqué is narrowing his eyes in concern.

Sergio didn't really mean to make Messi uncomfortable about his soul mark, and seeing Messi now curl into himself timidly makes him feel a bit bad. After all, Sergio's the last person who should be throwing stones... His damn jealousy's just got the better of him... again. Taking a deep breath he decides he can play off his outburst as a joke.

He'll say something outrageous, something hilariously impossible that will make Messi snap back and roll his eyes at Sergio's inappropriate sense of humor.

"Seriously," Sergio says with a casual laugh, "what could you possibly have written there that needs that much space on your arm: 'I really, really, really wanna bend you over and fuck you until you're screaming my name'?" He mentally high fives himself, half wondering if he should have gone dirtier, while he waits for Messi to say something like 'You wish' or 'Dream on.'

Messi's hand is frozen over his armband, but his eyes widen to be so big that Sergio thinks he might be having a stroke.

And then, before Sergio can say anything else, Messi whispers, "Yes."

*****

Sergio's arm is *BURNING*.

It is *BURNING*.

And he is furious.

Fucked and furious, because Messi--

Sergio finally found his soulmate. Worse, he's about to play el clásico against his soulmate. Scratch that, even worse is that his soulmate is Lionel Fucking Messi. A goddamn culé. And Sergio doesn't know how the fuck he's supposed to do this when his arm is *BURNING.*

*****

Piqué storms into their locker room at halftime and Sergio already knows this isn't going to go well. "Look--," Sergio starts, standing up and holding out his free hand like that's going to stop whatever tirade is about to be directed his way. The other hand is holding a bag of ice against his soul mark, desperately waiting for the burning to stop.

His wrist band is unfastened, somewhere on the bench next to him and he has half a thought to put it back on before they have this discussion.

But then Piqué punches him.

"You fucking asshole," Piqué spits, shaking his hand out after like he might have broken it on Sergio's face. "How dare you! How dare you say that to him? Who the hell do you think you are?!" He's furious, eyes flashing, now being held back by most of Sergio's teammates, obviously still entirely set on hitting Sergio again. "How could you?"

Sergio groans, squeezing his eyes shut, ice bag forgotten as both hands clutch at his nose. It's incredibly painful, but there's no blood at least. "Jesus, Piqué, it was a fucking joke!"

This is the last thing he needs right now.

Somebody's shouting about finding the ref, about Piqué getting a card for violence off the field, how he's thrown the game and going to be banned for the rest of the season. Somebody's screaming about getting the trainers, somebody's looking for Zidane, somebody's wondering if they should get Valverde. It's chaos and noise over the sound of the pounding music and all it does is give Sergio a headache. In the midst he can hear Marcelo, trying to calm everyone down, though of course, he's gotta be wondering what's happening too.

Piqué's laughing now, but it's maniacal, and nobody knows quite what to do.

Sergio manages to open his eyes to see that Karim and Nacho have a hold of one of Piqué's arms while Dani and Gareth are gripping the other. Toni is standing near them looking uncertain, having picked up Sergio's bag of ice like he wants to help but doesn't know how. Nearly everyone is surrounding them now, entirely confused.

Nothing stops Piqué from answering, "Oh, so now sexual harassment is a joke? Do you even hear yourself right now? Are you fucking serious?!"

There are whispers then, about how Piqué's lost his mind, about what Sergio could have possibly said...

"I wasn't--," Sergio says, one hand holding his nose now as the other runs through his hair. "I didn't mean it like that. He was supposed to laugh! Who the hell has something like that written on their arm? I take it back, alright?! I take everything back, tell him to forget it." His nose is starting to feel numb, but it hasn't stopped his eyes from tearing, and he hopes nothing is broken. "It was a joke, my whole life is fucking joke apparently!"

"You can't take it back, Sergio! That's not how this works! That's not how any of this works! You know that!" Piqué's still livid, shoving at Karim and Gareth as he lunges toward Sergio again. "You both said the fucking words, asshole!"

Luka gasps then, covering his mouth immediately and Sergio doesn't know what to fucking do.

Security comes in then, starts dragging Piqué out even though he keeps fighting and yelling about Sergio being an asshole. Nearly everyone watches him go in silence, still able to hear him long after he's forced out of the locker room. When their eyes turn back to Sergio, he collapses onto the bench and covers his face.

*****

Piqué is red-carded as expected.

Sergio's nose isn't broken but it sure as fuck causes him discomfort during the rest of the game.

Real Madrid wins 3-1 with Barcelona down a man for the second half. Karim scores twice and Umtiti causes an own goal to make it three for Real Madrid. Right near the end, Messi manages to nick the ball off of someone and drill it into the back of the net, but it isn't enough for them. Of course, it's Messi.

Sergio books it to the locker room afterward, needing to get away from everyone and everything. Tosses his band in his locker. Tapes a new bag of ice to his wrist. Tries to change and shower and go about his normal after-game routine without losing it. The team leaves him along for a while, happy enough about the win that they can chatter amongst themselves, but the elephant is still in the room.

Marcelo finally decides he's had enough alone time. "So, you gonna explain this all to us, or are we supposed to just guess at everything? Because if you think Piqué is gonna keep his mouth shut about you, I'd bet that you're in for a rude awakening." He sits down next to Sergio on the bench and looks at him seriously. "What did you say and who'd you match with?"

Everyone swings to look at Sergio.

Sergio doesn't have to say anything because at that moment there's a hubbub by the door to the locker room. After Piqué's violent arrival, they'd posted extra security and nobody is getting in without being thoroughly vetted. Admittedly it is a bit of a surprise when Luka winds his way through the crowd and stops by Sergio. "Ivan says that Messi wants to come in and talk to you for a little bit," he says, blinking calmly. "Is that... okay?"

Marcelo makes a choked sound of understanding. "Wow, Sese... Didn't see that one coming." To Luka, "Does he look like he wants to punch anyone?" he asks, as a wave of shock washes over everyone.

Luka shakes his head, peering at Sergio as if trying to read his thoughts. "Ivan says...," he starts, before changing his mind. He shakes his head. "He's got three bags of ice strapped to his arm, and he looks really tired. But he doesn't look angry. And Ivan says he hasn't spoken to anyone else since the game ended."

Sergio presses his own bag of ice against his wrist, wondering when the hell it's supposed to stop burning, because nobody ever mentioned it burning for so fucking long. "Whatever," he mutters, not knowing what else to do. He's dug his own grave, no matter what he said to Piqué about it. He knows he can't take it back. Can't go back.

He's stuck.

They're stuck.

Messi's still in his kit when he wanders in, his boots clacking against the tile lightly. And as Luka said, he's got three bags of ice taped to his arm, now bandless, stretching from his wrist to his elbow. If Sergio didn't know any better, he'd have thought Messi broke his arm again or something.

"You didn't shower?" Sergio asks to break the silence since everyone is still standing there in shock and Messi hasn't said anything either.

"I--, no," Messi says, looking down at himself and then back up at Sergio. His eyes flick down to Sergio's wrist, covered with the ice. His voice is croaky, and he clears his throat. He's not sweating any longer, though there are grass stains on both his shorts and his socks, and he might have tracked some mud in. His right hand is holding his arm gingerly, and one of the bags of ice starts dripping onto the floor. "Why does it still hurt?"

Sergio doesn't answer, and neither does anyone else. He suspects because nobody really knows the answer.

Messi shakes his head and looks at the floor, focusing on the small puddle of water forming. "I'm sorry for--for Geri, um," he breaks off and heaves a sigh. "I'm just sorry." He waits a beat and then looks up at Sergio. "I don't know what to do," he says helplessly. "I never expected this... I'm sorry."

"Yeah, you said that," Sergio says sarcastically, wanting to kick himself when Messi just looks exhaustedly down at the puddle again. "Look, shit, I don't know what to do either, okay?" he says even before Marcelo can poke him in the ribs. "I didn't mean for this to happen either--I didn't mean what I said," he adds, gesturing toward Messi's arm. "I really didn't."

Messi colors immediately, glancing at his arm as if to make sure the bags of ice block the writing.

"Can we just--," Sergio starts, suddenly aware of how many eyes and ears are around them, "take this somewhere else?" He has no idea what he's doing, but he catches Luka smile at him encouragingly from behind Messi's head. "Figure out what to do next?"

Messi doesn't straighten up, but he smiles faintly.

*****

"Geri's always known what it said," Messi blurts out when they're both back at Sergio's house.

The car ride had been incredibly awkward, with the music on the radio the only noise and Messi sitting next to him cradling his arm. Perhaps Sergio should have tried to make conversation, but the truth is he didn't know what to say. Messi must not have known either, but apparently he'd been thinking on the subject as well.

Sergio sets his keys in a dish by the door and looks in the mirror above it. His nose is red, a bit bruised, but it's not crooked at all or anything. He'll live on to be his handsome self thankfully. "He never mentioned it to me," Sergio says, thinking back through every conversation he ever had with Piqué about Messi. "Not that we talked about... that sort of thing a lot."

He doesn't want to say soulmates.

If he says it, it's real.

Which is a stupid way to look at it. Incredibly stupid, since they said the words. And they are obviously soulmates.

"It's just," Messi continues, looking around Sergio's place with a flicker of interest, "that's why he was so..." Here he pauses and looks at Sergio's nose with regret. "Flustered?"

"Did you mean violent and aggressive?" Sergio asks with a hint of irritation.

Messi's cheeks color. "Yes," he says after a few seconds, biting his lip. "I'm sorry he hit you. I didn't want him to do that--I didn't know he would react like that." He looks away when Sergio holds his gaze. "I was surprised when you said--what you said--and I told him because I always tell him everything. And I was, I don't know, nervous and uncertain and I knew he was your friend."

"Yes. *Was.* Past tense, maybe," Sergio says, taking a deep breath and gesturing for Messi to follow him to the kitchen. "We'll see how I feel tomorrow."

"He shouldn't have done that, but he was only defending me. It's just, you don't know what it was like," Messi continues, following Sergio quickly. "Growing up with that--," he shakes his head and the pink in his cheeks starts turning red, "--kind of soul mark." Sergio turns around immediately, but Messi can't meet his eyes, unable to even repeat the words. "It was so, so embarrassing and awful and--"

"And what about me?" Sergio demands, still on edge. He rips off the band he'd replaced before they'd left the locker room. "One fucking word," he says, shoving his wrist in Messi's face. The 'Yes' is darker somehow now, blacker than it's ever been, and still throbbing incessantly. "One fucking word for my entire life! Nothing to go on, no clues, no nothing!"

"And what was my clue?" Messi yells back at him, showing some anger for the first time that night. His embarrassment is turning to fury, eyes dark with rage as he spreads an arm out to show his soul mark too. "Huh? You think this was better than what you had? How do you think it felt to know that while everyone around me had soul marks about love and kindness and beauty, a few words easily covered with a normal band, I had this awful sentence taking up my whole arm!"

"One word, Messi, one word!" Sergio yells back, still caught up in it, all the years of anger and jealousy rising to the surface once more. Messi has no idea what he's talking about, no idea what he's suffered all this time as everyone around them found their soulmate except for him. "Yes? The best you could do was 'yes'?!"

"One word? Are you serious? Oh cry me a river," Messi says like he's reached the end of his rope. "Try being a child whose mother has to explain what 'fuck you until you're screaming' means. Because that's what *your* words say." He turns away from Sergio and collapses into a chair at the table, holding his head in his hands. "What do you want me to do? Say I'm sorry for you? Sure, I'm real sorry for you. I'm sorry for both of us."

*****

"What am I supposed to do?" Sergio whispers into the phone, even though he's sure Messi can't hear him from the room down the hall. Their anger had eventually dissolved into some form of quiet acceptance, or maybe an agreement to table the argument for the night. Either way, Sergio had shown Messi to the guest room and then made a break for his own room. "How am I supposed to live with this?"

Cris sighs from the other end of the call. "I mean, first of all, what the hell? How did this even happen? You and Messi? Seriously, that is fucking weird and I honestly do not get it. Never saw that coming. And I'm not sure what people are going to think when it gets out. But," he coughs, "I guess, second of all, stop yelling at each other because that's certainly not going to fix anything. You guys are in this together now, right? You need to tone it down. All you're gonna do is start hating each other even more than you do now if things go on this way."

Sergio collapses onto his bed and stares at the ceiling like it has all the answers. "I don't hate him," he admits. "But nothing I do is going to fix anything," he says pessimistically. "Nothing is going to make this better. Ever. Nothing except, going back in time and taking back what I said and what he said." After a minute he adds, "I would feel better if I could punch Piqué too."

"Naturally," Cris agrees, stifling a laugh. "But Messi though... I can't see it. I really can't. I don't know if I've ever heard of anyone as--as unsuited? Matching up like this. But, Sergio, they say your soulmate is supposed to be perfect for you, supposed to make you as happy as you could ever be. And I guess, well, there's nothing else to do except give this a chance."

Sergio hums because he doesn't know what to say to that.

"Seriously, though. What's it say on Messi's arm? Because now I'm really curious as to what it is that could have made Piqué so mad about you saying it," Cris says to fill the silence. “Was it about Madrid?”

Sergio opens his mouth and then closes it. "It's," he starts, not sure how to finish "It's not for me to say," he says, which sounds idiotic. "I shouldn't tell you. I would be--," he stops again and shakes his head. "Messi wouldn't like it."

"Oh so now we're all concerned with Messi would or wouldn't like, hmmm?" Cris asks.

"Shut up. I hate you," Sergio replies, rolling onto his side and staring at the wall.

"Yeah, yeah," Cris says. "That's probably a good thing, Sergio, that you’re thinking like that now. Truly. Try to hold onto that feeling. Go with your instincts, because there's some greater power out there that knows the two of you together could be something amazing. It's the weirdest shit to me, but, try to make this work. And you might just end up as happy as they say you can be."

"That's only true if he wants it too," Sergio says quietly.

*****

Sergio has no idea what Messi likes.

Or rather, what little information he has is pretty useless. He vaguely knows that Messi likes mate, but that definitely isn't something that he keeps in the house so he starts brewing coffee instead. Once that's started, he takes a carafe of orange juice out of the fridge along with some milk and creamer. A bowl of sugar is added next to them on the table. Finally, he sets out a loaf of bread for toast and arranges a few blueberry muffins on a plate.

It doesn't look half bad, but it's also not that much.

Sergio really needs to go shopping, since he doesn't have anything else that's fresh like fruit or eggs. He stares blankly at his pantry and wonders what he can pull out. A little jar of raspberry jam is front and center--a gift from someone or another--and as he's staring at it and wondering, something else catches his eye. "Aha!"

"Aha, what?" Messi asks from behind him, scaring the shit out of him.

Sergio spins around, holding his chest and trying not to pass out. "Make some fucking noise, will ya? I'm used to living alone." He takes a long, slow, deep breath and closes his eyes as he lets it out. After a minute, he opens his eyes and looks at Messi again. "Sorry, good morning."

Messi's dressed in the same clothes he'd come over in, dark jeans and a white t-shirt, sans the black hoodie he'd been wearing in the car. Everything's wrinkled, and Sergio has a not so nice moment where he remembers that he didn't give Messi any other clothes to sleep in. The long armband is tied on Messi's arm again, but that's not out of the ordinary.

Sergio hasn't bothered to cover his own soul mark.

"Good morning," Messi answers, echoing Sergio's greeting. He flicks his eyes down over Sergio's wrist and then quickly looks behind Sergio at the cabinet that's open. "What were you aha-ing about?"

Sergio straightens up. "Oh, yes," he turns back to the cabinet and seizes the jar he'd found next to the jam. Turning around to Messi again, he pauses, suddenly a little uncertain. The jar is hidden in his hand and he thinks about forgetting the whole thing, but Messi is blinking at him curiously without any of the tension he'd shown last night and Sergio finally decides 'what the hell.'

"Dulce de leche?" Messi asks, a smile starting to spread on his face as Sergio's fingers uncurl enough to reveal the little jar.

"You like that right?" Sergio asks, trying to regain his control. "I mean, I think I heard something about that somewhere so..." He shrugs and with a bravado that he's unsure is successful, steps by Messi to set the dulce de leche down next to the loaf of bread. "I do have jam," he says when Messi continues to stand there instead of sitting down. "Would you rather?"

"No," Messi says finally, gaze traveling from the table to Sergio's face. "I think this will be fine."

*****

"Can I see it?" Sergio asks later when they're sitting out in the backyard. Breakfast had gone okay, and so had lunch--hard to go too wrong with tacos, really--and when Sergio had suggested relaxing out on the deck for a little while before dinner, Messi had been okay with it. And now, with a glass of wine in his hand, and his feet tapping on the wooden planks beneath them, Sergio's gathered some more of his courage.

"See what?" Messi asks, taking a sip of his own wine. He's staring out at the garden, watching a bird splash about in the stone fountain in the center. But at Sergio's question, his head lolls to the side questioningly.

Sergio raises his eyebrows. He switches his glass of wine to his right hand and then extends his left to flash his soul mark at Messi. The 'Yes' is still entirely visible and Sergio looks meaningfully at Messi's covered arm. "I haven't seen it... And," he tilts his head, determined to follow through, "I'd like to."

Messi swallows roughly, looking down at his armband like he's torn. They hadn't straight out discussed what had happened the night before, and if it were up to Messi, they probably never would. Messi's fingers go slowly to the band, resting over the covering for a moment before he looks back up at Sergio. "Okay," he says quietly, and his cheeks are starting to redden.

Sergio waits.

Messi sets his wineglass down on the table next to him, and then slides off the band reluctantly, his hand hiding the words almost as soon as they're revealed. "I've only ever shown Geri," he whispers. "After my mom got me the band." His eyes are huge as he looks over at Sergio. "It's not--I don't like looking at it." But then he pulls his hand away and leaves the words free to be read.

Sergio's 'Yes' throbs in sympathy. "I'm sorry I said it," Sergio gets out, feeling his face get hot as he reads it. "Honestly, Messi," he shakes his head and corrects himself. "Leo. I'm sorry. I just said it to shock you--wanted you to laugh and I don't know... It wasn't supposed to be like this." He reads it again and again, feeling utterly ashamed. "I would never... never really say that to you."

Messi huffs. "Well, I hope not." But he rubs his hand over his arm and then bites his lip. "But there they are. For eternity." His eyes go back to the birdbath again. "And you said them."

*****

Sergio accepts Piqué's call grudgingly. Messi's gone to shower and Sergio's watching some stupid movie on tv. "What?" There's chattering and noise and the clinking of glasses in the background that makes it sound like Piqué's out at some bar or restaurant. Sergio's not sure why, since he should be hiding at home from the press and the whole of Barcelona after the halftime incident. "What else could you possibly have to say?"

"Well, it's not that I'm sorry I hit you," Piqué says, sounding disgruntled. "Because I'm not. You know what you said. Deserved to get punched in the face." He breathes heavily into the phone and then curses. "I'm sorry it was you, though. I didn't--I never thought it would be you." There's a strange tone to it that Sergio can't read. "I always knew someone would say it, but I never thought it would be you. I thought it would be some asshole."

Sergio rolls his eyes.

"Leo told me I shouldn't have interfered, shouldn't have gotten involved," Piqué continues, laughing lightly. "And that's not even close to the shit I've gotten from other people. Mostly because they cared a lot more about losing el clásico than the whole punch thing... But seriously, fuck what Leo says because I've been there his entire life and seen how he's flinched any time someone's so much as showed interest in him. And that's because of those goddamn words printed on his arm."

His voice has been getting steadily louder and louder, and at that sentence, there's the sound of what Sergio thinks is a fist hitting a table. Laughter follows along with some catcalls and other shouts of encouragement.

"I think you should really see someone about your anger issues," Sergio says, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. "I'll suggest it to Messi when he gets out of the shower." A few cars blow up in a giant explosion on the screen in front of him and he nods appreciatively, wondering if maybe this movie isn't as bad as he thought. "Maybe he knows somewhere in Barcelona that'll work."

"It's still all a joke to you, isn't it?" Piqué asks, all the noise in the background vanishing like he's stepped outside or something.

Sergio tries not to roll his eyes again. It takes a lot of effort, but he's been working on it lately. "Only your part in it," he says, wondering if he should get up and get a beer. Or he could make popcorn. Messi would probably eat that. It occurs to him that Piqué hasn't responded and he clears his throat and tries to pay attention. "You still there?"

"Yeah," Piqué says. "I know we're..." He sounds broken up. "I know you're incredibly mad at me, but can you just listen to what I'm saying for a second. Please, Sergio. Please."

Sergio thinks about hanging up. "Fine, you have one minute," he says, feeling all sorts of generous at the moment. Maybe it's because he's in an okay mood, and things are sorta going okay with Messi. Maybe it's because he had a couple of glasses of wine earlier. Or hey, maybe it's because his team won el clásico and that's a pretty big fucking deal. "Gerard," he prompts when Piqué doesn't say anything right away.

"You know how me and you fucked around, before, right?" Piqué asks bluntly. "Obviously that's done with now, but you remember?"

Sergio laughs. "What's that got anything to do with this? We had a good time. You can't tell me otherwise now, just because of what's happened. Because if so, I'm gonna call you on that one, my friend."

"No--I'm not saying that. I'm just saying," Piqué says slowly. "Not everyone does that. Like you and me. The sex was for fun, no strings, blah blah blah. If I fucked someone else the next day you wouldn't care, and vice versa, obviously. But, not everyone goes out and has a good time like us. Some people barely did that, okay?" It sounds like the words are being forced out of his mouth, because they're harsh and gradual like Sergio's an idiot and can't possibly understand him in a million years.

"Okay?" Sergio asks

Piqué sighs as if physically pained. "I'm telling you that Leo wasn't like us. Okay?" he asks mockingly, echoing Sergio. "I am begging you to understand this. That he shied away from nearly anyone who tried to get close to him, and no matter what you heard--he didn't sleep around with everyone who threw themselves at him."

"Um, okay," Sergio says, sitting up, thoughts of popcorn forgotten. Well, not forgotten. Just put on the back burner. "So, kid gloves, you're saying. I mean, it's not like I was gonna jump his bones immediately. I can take my time."

"He finally gets it," Piqué mutters, and the background noise starts swelling behind him as he goes back inside wherever he is. Someone calls his name and Piqué tells them to wait. "Just, be careful with him. I'm not kidding around, if you think what I did to your face was bad yesterday, it pales in comparison to what I'll do if you hurt him. Get me?"

Sergio hangs up.

*****

"Did Ney sleep with Messi? I don't know why you're asking," Marcelo says as they jog around the pitch before they move onto the next drill, "but as far as I know, no." He's breathing a little heavily as they slow down when they reach midfield. "I'm really afraid to ask about this, but as your friend, I feel like it's my duty to. So come on, give."

Sergio takes a knee so he can untie his laces and redo them again. "Piqué said something," he mutters, not sure if this is the best place to be talking about anything related to the whole business. After all, he knows what the rest of his team thinks about Piqué. What he doesn't know is how they feel about Messi and him matching up. He *expects* their entire wordless support.

Preferably wordless.

"Oh, he did, did he?" Marcelo asks, squatting down next to Sergio to do the same. He waits until Sergio's almost finished lacing up and then shoves him so that he falls over onto the grass. "Why the fuck are you talking to him? You idiot! He punched you in the face! Who the fuck cares what he has to say?"

Sergio makes a face and thinks about just laying in the grass instead of continuing training. "Well, he's like, Messi's best friend, for one thing, so I was bound to have to talk to him again." Then he shrugs. "And he was my friend, too, before. You know." He waves his hand. "I haven't forgiven him, or anything, but he said something and it made me realize that I need to start asking some questions. For the sake of our future."

Marcelo heaves a sigh. "Fucking Messi," he says, though it's without heat. He looks at Sergio's wrist, obviously having seen that the wristband is nowhere to be found. He doesn't say anything about the 'Yes.' "I can try to find out more if you want, but..." He makes a face and looks at Sergio again. "From what I remember, Ney was head over heels. Tried everything he could think of to get Messi to feel the same. I'm talking romantic shit like flowers, chocolates, expensive watches." He's ticking things off on his fingers. "And then there were the little things like just hanging out and playing video games, or eating lunch together, or carpooling. He didn't make his feelings a secret at all."

"And Messi?" Sergio asks, feeling guilty for even asking, like he's going behind Messi's back to find out his secrets. "Did he go for it?"

"And Messi turned him down. He told Ney he didn't want anything like that," Marcelo said, shrugging. "I remember one time Ney decided he was going to just go for it, just kiss him or something." He stands up and brushes grass off his shorts. "I think it nearly caused a huge rift in the team because Messi acted like Ney shot him."

Sergio takes the hand that's offered to him. "From just a kiss?"

Marcelo nods. "That's what Ney said," he says, thinking for a moment. "And, well, from wanting to see Messi's arm." He winces. "I think he might have tried to convince Messi they were matched, when they weren't." He looks apologetically at Sergio, clearly knowing that was a shitty thing to do. "Obviously they weren't."

"Obviously," Sergio says, looking toward the goal, anger flickering inside him.

*****

"Ivan and I talked it over and we think we know what happened," Luka says as they sit down to lunch. And when Sergio looks up in shock, trying to think of something to say that can quickly steer them away from reliving the embarrassing moment all over again, Luka holds up a hand gently. "Oh, no," he says, trying not to laugh. "I don't mean that we know what you said. But, what I meant was, we think we figured out why it hurt so long."

"Oh," Sergio says, dropping his fork to his salad.

"We think it's because you didn't want it," Luka says then, taking a sip of his water and watching Sergio's face for a reaction. "Both you and Messi. Neither of you wanted the match, and you were both so angry, which meant that the mark reacted badly as a result. If you'd been accepting, the pain would have faded away immediately."

Sergio looks down at his arm. Nobody has said anything about the 'Yes,' but he thinks that he's received a lot of understanding glances now that it's revealed. Which, fair enough, he'd been a bitch about his one word forever, so it made sense that they'd all figure out why now.

That said, the 'Yes' no longer burned.

It hadn't burned for a while now.

Not since...

"Does it still hurt?" Luka asks, noticing him looking at it. He peers over at Sergio's wrist as if he's trying to figure out a second theory. "Ivan and I were sure that was it..." He slumps over and holds his head up with his hand. "Otherwise I'm not sure why--"

"It doesn't," Sergio admits, feeling bad that Luka's going to blame himself for whatever reason. "It... stopped." And he hadn't asked Messi necessarily, but Messi hadn't been using ice bags so Sergio figures Messi's isn't hurting either.

Luka perks up. "Oh," he says, looking a lot happier. And then he starts to smile genuinely, his happiness growing as he processes that. "So you and Messi then? You're okay?"

Sergio chews on a tomato. "Well, we're getting there." He ignores the way Luka does a little dance in his seat. "Relax, man. We're not besties or anything like the way you and Rakitić were before, so it's a little harder than it should be for us to figure this whole thing out. A lot of trial and error," he says, rambling on and not sure what he's even saying.

Luka's nodding like he understands everything.

"Oh, will you stop that," Sergio scolds, focusing back on his salad and trying to stop himself from looking at Luka. "Seriously, don't get all excited," he warns, chewing on another tomato in an effort to avoid a radish. "We're not going to start acting all lovey-dovey, and you know it, so don't make this into something it's not."

"Not yet," Luka says, waggling his eyebrows.

Sergio throws the radish at him.

*****

Messi doesn't seem to be in any hurry to go back to Barcelona.

Sergio's not sure whether that's a good thing or a bad thing, but he doesn't try to push him out the door either. Both teams and the people in charge know what happened now--the matching, not the actual words said--and so Messi's been given some leeway about remaining in Madrid. It's the end of the season anyway, only one unimportant game remaining. Or maybe because Messi's able to turn it on and off, and doesn't necessarily have to train every day like the rest of humankind.

That said, Sergio doesn't know what to do with their time.

They aren't quite prepared to go out in public, to a restaurant or a museum or even to a picnic in the park. Being who they are, they'll get swarmed. Being who they are and revealing they're newly matched? They'll get swarmed even worse. So instead they hang out at Sergio's house, watching movies or cooking, sometimes kicking the ball around in the backyard for a few minutes in the evening. They talk about music and traveling, about clothing and endorsements.

It's a way to slowly, gradually, eventually get used to the other.

To learn what each other likes and dislikes.

Messi doesn't like spicy food, for example, which Sergio thinks is hilarious. He needs everything to be a mild flavor, or else he needs some sort of sauce to cool his food down. Sergio had learned that the hard way during taco night. The next night, he learns that Messi doesn't like sushi, or anything raw. He likes his food cooked until it's nearly burnt, almost as if he wants to get as far away from the raw as possible. Sergio's tried to convince him to expand his palate but has been shot down each time.

Messi also loves horror movies. The more zombies the better, according to him, which grosses out Sergio more than he can say. It's nearly caused every disagreement that they've had in the short time they've been together. Messi's tastes tend toward bloody and murderous, while Sergio would much rather watch a blood-less comedy. They've been taking turns with the Netflix choices, but Sergio's starting to regret it.

Every once in awhile he thinks about broaching the topic of Piqué's phone call, but then... he fucking wimps out.

In a way, this whole thing might be his fault, since he started out with something so sexually explicit. Not that Messi's going around bandless and reminding Sergio about what was said every second of every day, but the problem is how does Sergio go back to square one.

How does he start with something simple?

How does he get Messi to kiss him?

*****

"You haven't kissed him yet?" Luka asks him, sounding terribly disappointed in Sergio. "What have you been doing?!" He frowns at Sergio and then threatens to start pouting. "I thought you were doing okay, not that you were trying to fuck this up."

"I told you we weren't lovey-dovey. And shut it, I am not trying to fuck this up," Sergio patiently repeats, trying not to roll his eyes up into the back of his skull. "I am, we're--," he throws his hands up and sighs. "I don't want to scare him off, alright? Things are fine the way they are. I don't want to rush, that's not what this is about."

Luka's still sulking. "I don't think you know what this is about at all. This is your soulmate that we're talking about. It shouldn't be hard, shouldn't be work. Things are supposed to be effortless. And Messi," he clears his throat," excuse me, Leo, is your soulmate now, Sergio! Whether you like it or not. You're going to have to learn to live with that."

Sergio looks at Marcelo for help.

"I don't think that he's trying to deny that," Marcelo says soothingly, patting Sergio on the elbow and nodding that he'll take care of this. "That's not very fair, Luka. You know this is new for Sergio, and he's doing his best. It can't be easy for him to meet Messi halfway, especially given how things have gone for them in the past."

Sergio rolls that over in his mind, wondering if that's really the kind of help he wanted.

"In fact," Marcelo continues placatingly, "if they haven't killed each other yet, it's really a huge step in the right direction. I mean, the two of them living together under one roof? Blanco and culé?" He smiles winningly at Sergio. "We should really be congratulating him!"

Sergio presses his palms to his face. "Thank you ever so much," he grates out. "But that is not something to be congratulated about." He takes a deep breath and then drops his hands. "We're not the first couple from different teams, you know--look at Luka and Rakitić, obviously. But that said, the rivalry isn't the issue, we're not anywhere close to killing each other! We get along fine! It's just taking the next step, okay? That's what I'm worried about!"

Luka's expression changes. "Why are you worried, Sergio?" he asks softly. "Ivan and I worked out, and as you said, we were from different teams. Taking the step from friendship to something more just happened without us even trying. It's not so insurmountable, really. Not if you want it."

Sergio looks away. "That's not it, okay. I mean, aside from the fact that we are still working on that base layer of friendship. It's just... I'm not sure, that Messi's had a lot of experience..." He's hesitant to mention exactly what Piqué had said on the phone, but he knows his friends will be discreet. "I don't know what he's done, or with who, but I don't think it was a lot. And I just don't want to scare him off." He shrugs. "I don't want to possibly push too hard and ruin what could happen in the future."

"Oh, then you're right to go slow," Luka says quietly. "Go slow and do what feels right. And don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Sergio looks to Marcelo, but he's nodding. "Lukita's right, Sergio. This is your life. Your soulmate. And despite the shit we all give you, you're the one in control of your own destiny here," Marcelo agrees.

And just when Sergio's starting to feel better about the whole situation, Keylor approaches looking unhappy. "Bad news, Sese. The press found out."

*****

Messi's out in the backyard when Sergio gets home. He's filling up the birdbath with the hose, dipping his fingers in the water for a few seconds before flicking the excess off into the flowers. It's a little childish, but it makes him look light and carefree, and Sergio pauses up on the deck because he's not sure what to say.

"It's alright," Messi calls over his shoulder, having heard the patio door slide open and shut. "Luis called earlier. Told me we're trending on twitter." He laughs lightly. "It's funny, isn't it? I don't even have twitter."

Sergio says a small prayer that he doesn't have to be the one bringing the bad news, but he still goes down the stairs slowly and walks over to stand beside Messi. They both silently survey the birdbath, watching as Messi carefully fills it up until it's nearly overflowing and then turns the water off. Sergio probably wouldn't have filled it that high, but it doesn't really matter.

"It's alright," Messi says again, this time looking at Sergio directly. "We knew this would happen. Knew we couldn't hide here forever."

"Is that what we were doing?" Sergio asks. "Hiding?"

Messi stifles a laugh. "Some of the time," he says, dipping his fingers back into the water. "Surprised it didn't get out sooner, really. Especially after el clásico... Geri certainly kicked up such a fuss, can't believe nobody was lurking around to hear it or push for the exact words that led to his expulsion."

"If they were loyal to me, they might have sat on it for a few days," Sergio says off the top of his head. And when Messi looks up at him in surprise, Sergio nods. "What? You think you have the monopoly on loyalty? Plenty of people wouldn't have wanted to let this get out... unless it was to smear Piqué of course. Or you." He shrugs. "But since it was mainly about me..."

Could have leaked from Barcelona, too," Messi says, sighing. He flicks his fingers at the garden again, wiping his hand on his shirt to dry the rest. It's Sergio's borrowed shirt, actually, hanging hugely over Messi's thin frame. "Lots of people there don't like you," he adds with a laugh.

Sergio's not sure whether to be insulted or not. In the end, he's not. Barcelona's always disliked him and he doesn't give a shit. "It doesn't really matter," he says quietly. "I don't give a fuck, about them, I mean." And when Messi looks up at him again, he says honestly, "It really only matters whether you like me."

Messi opens his mouth and then closes it.

"Do you?" Sergio asks, feeling like he's back in school, passing notes over to his crush. "Do you like me?"

The truth is, he's not sure what he's going to do if Messi says no. What is there to do? Just keep going on with life? Try to erase his past sins and win Messi over somehow? That's all he can do, right? There's nothing else to do except fight for his soulmate and if Messi's going to be a dick and tell him--

"Yes," Messi says then, interrupting Sergio's train of thought.

*****

Hearing Messi say the word 'Yes' is never going to get old, or at least that's what Sergio decides after they go inside to eat pizza. There hadn't been that much more conversation in the garden after that, both of them a little uncomfortable with what had just been admitted, stumbling over their words and their feet until Sergio suggested they eat.

Messi gets pineapple on his pizza, which nearly makes Sergio throw up. But then, Sergio already knew he had awful taste.

After pizza there's coffee. Not mate for Messi, although Sergio's managed to have some delivered and it's in the kitchen anytime Messi feels like having it. But they have coffee out on the deck again, a little tray with creamer and sugar stuck between them. There's also a little bottle of whiskey there which Sergio had added as an afterthought, but Messi seemed more than happy to pour a tad into their mugs.

Only one of them has training in the morning, after all.

They sit, curled up in the chairs, and watch the fireflies blink in and out of the darkness. It's dark enough now that Sergio's lit the torches to give everything a fiery glow while they relax. It's almost strangely domestic, but Sergio finds he doesn't mind. Perhaps that's why he finally gains his courage. (Either that or the slow, building heat of the alcohol coursing through his veins.) "I've been thinking," Sergio says slowly, turning in his chair to face Messi.

Messi mirrors him, hands cupped around his mug as he bends to take another sip. "About?" he asks, swallowing his coffee and sighing in contentment. "This?"

"This, and you," Sergio allows, balancing his mug on his knee. He studies Messi intently, trying to figure out what he's thinking and failing miserably. That's the thing about Messi--he always seems completely unreadable. Still, Sergio's not finished. "You, and me," he adds, taking a breath.

Messi just blinks at him, and it's so damn annoying. "Oh?"

Sergio laughs. "What, you haven't been thinking about you and me?"

Messi laughs lightly then too, breaking some of the tension. "Maybe," he admits as he stares down into his mug. "You're different than I thought you would be. A good different." He shrugs and looks back up at Sergio. "I never hated you or anything, but I can't say I wanted to be... friends with you either."

Sergio nods. "Fair enough. Back at ya." He wrestles with himself, and then comes right out and says it. "And now, that we're friends," he starts tentatively, watching as Messi slightly nods in agreement. "Now that we're friends, have you thought about... being more than friends?"

The question hovers in the air and for a minute, Sergio thinks that Messi's not going to answer and going to go back to his irritatingly quiet self. But Messi doesn't do that at all. Messi answers him firmly, unexpectedly. "Yes," Messi says, fingers tightening their grip on the mug, head tilted down like he's slightly embarrassed.

He doesn't see the way Sergio's body straightens in anticipation.

Always at that word. Always at Messi's 'Yes.'

"Have you thought about... maybe me kissing you?" Sergio asks slowly, almost trying to give Messi time to stop him from saying it. A firefly zooms around their heads, but he finds that he doesn't feel the need to watch it. He watches Messi instead, trying to get inside his head, trying to figure out his every thought and see if they're on the same page.

Messi keeps his eyes on his coffee. "Yes," he says again, but this time he licks his lips.

Sergio leans forward at that, setting his mug down on the tray between them because he's afraid he's going to spill it all over himself. "Do you want me to kiss you now?" he finally just blurts out, all ideas of finesse and caution thrown out the window. Days of concern and planning and good intentions just ignored like he's a fucking teenager who can't keep it in his pants.

Messi's eyes glimmer in the firelight. "Yes."


	2. Chapter 2

"So you kissed him, obviously?" Cris drawls.

"Yes, I fucking kissed him!" Sergio hisses into the phone, stomping across the pavement like he wants to make his path crack in half. He'd decided to go outside so as not to run the risk of being overheard. And so he wouldn't destroy anything valuable inside. "And then he gulped the rest of his coffee down and practically ran upstairs to his room without another word."

"Was it not a good kiss?" Cris asks, sounding confused. "I didn't think you had any complaints in that particular area. At least not that I heard..."

Sergio closes his eyes and he's back on the deck with his lips pressed to Messi's. "It was a good kiss," he says quietly, the anger draining out of him and threatening to turn into despair. "It was short, short and simple because I didn't--" He cuts himself off and opens his eyes again. "I didn't want to scare him off. Except that's exactly what I did, isn't it. It's barely been any time at all and I pushed--"

"I don't think Lionel Messi would be scared off by one little kiss, Sese," Cris says soothingly. "I mean he's one tough bastard out on the pitch. I think it would take a lot more than you laying one on him for him to freak the fuck out. What's the worst that happens now? You think he hates you? After saying he'd thought about it? That sounds ridiculous."

"Maybe I should call Piqué," Sergio mutters, rubbing his eyes and trying to think. "Maybe he'd know what I should do? Or shit, is that a bad idea? Now I don't know anything. Seriously, this stupid soulmate shit has had it in for me since the very beginning!"

"Alright drama queen," Cris says, snorting. "Calm the hell down. For one thing, I'm sure Messi's already called Piqué, so forget about that. And for another thing, have you considered that he might have just been... I don't know? Nervous? Overwhelmed? Hell, maybe you didn't scare him, so much as just, I don't know--turned him on?"

Sergio pauses. "I did not consider that."

"Well, did he look disgusted?" Cris asks, sounding exasperated now. "You said the kiss was good, but then he drank his coffee and ran off? How did he act when you actually kissed him?"

Sergio had told the truth when he said it was a good kiss.

Messi hadn't moved from his chair as Sergio approached, but he'd gripped his mug tightly and looked up trustingly at Sergio. He'd been nervous, and Sergio had too, but he hadn't tried to stop Sergio and that said a lot. For a moment, Sergio had just stood there and looked his fill. Dark lashes, dark eyes, dark hair spread out over that pale skin, but Sergio's eyes had gone to his lips.

And so had his mouth.

The first kiss is always one you remember, and Sergio was going to remember that one for sure. It was short, sweet from the coffee and sharp from the whiskey. A quick taste that made Sergio want more, a sharing of breath that lasted only a heartbeat or two.

When Sergio had pulled back, Messi's eyes were closed, a faint smile appearing on his face for an instant. And there was color on his cheeks in the most alluring way.

"He liked it," Sergio says to Cris. "He did. He liked it," he says, more sure of himself now. What happened after doesn't seem as harsh as it did then--Messi's decision to drink his coffee and retreat to his room. "You're right."

"I'm always right," Cris answers breezily. "Now go to bed. You need to figure out how to go from here and I have a feeling that you need to sleep on it." He coughs. "Things are probably going to get... messy."

Sergio groans.

"I know, man," Cris says instantly, laughing hysterically, "I'm hanging up, I'm hanging up."

*****

Messi's perfectly pleasant in the morning when Sergio wanders down to the kitchen, murmuring a hello while he spreads dulce de leche over his toast. There's no sign of it being different than any other day, no indication Messi regrets what happened between them the night before.

Sergio fills his coffee cup slowly, trying to think.

"I've been talking to, well, Barcelona's been talking to me. My people want to release a statement," Messi says, interrupting him. "Just a general one, probably identical to whatever your people want to put out--we're matched, we're very happy, we ask for privacy, etc. The usual." He takes a bite of his toast, chewing for a moment and then swallowing. "Probably should have done it before."

Sergio sits down across from him at the kitchen table. He'd thought of it days ago, but since the news hadn't been leaked yet his people had decided it was best to wait. "Yeah," he agrees, "that's a good idea. Won't do much to calm the fervor, really, but it can't hurt." He leans over the mug and inhales the steam. "The fans probably don't know what to think right now. We should post something on Instagram too."

Messi shifts in his chair, drawing Sergio's gaze. "Well," Messi says, clearing his throat. "You should post. I mean, I can, but." He shakes his head and laughs suddenly.

It's so unexpected that Sergio smiles to see it. "What? You have Instagram, that I know."

Messi shakes his head. "I forgot my password again," he says, sounding embarrassed. "My phone updated and then it wanted the password and I forgot it, because it's been so long since I had to type it in... And everything I tried it said wasn't right, and well, I feel like an idiot--"

Sergio stifles a laugh, listening to Messi ramble on. "Fine, fine," he says, "I can post! No big deal." He sips his coffee and smiles as Messi turns back to putting more dulce de leche on his toast. "Although, I mean you really should reset the password, because at some point you're probably going to need it."

That said, Sergio pulls out his phone and after a second, takes a picture of Messi and his toast. The sound of the shutter makes Messi look up.

"Did you just--?" Messi asks, knife in one hand and toast in the other.

"Yep," Sergio says, setting his coffee down so he can flick through filters. The picture actually isn't bad: Messi looks relaxed in his borrowed t-shirt, hair falling over his eyes as he focuses intently on his breakfast. More than that, it shows Messi sitting at Sergio's kitchen table, with the deck and the backyard plainly in sight out of the window behind him. It's casual, comfortable, and a little bit domestic, really. Finding a filter that he likes, Sergio leans over to show Messi. "What do you think?"

Messi shrugs. "It's fine, I guess." He looks uncertain. "And you think people will want to see... me?"

Sergio saves the post to his drafts, figuring he'll wait until the statements have been released. "I think people will want to see us. See proof that we're soulmates. And you being here, in my house, will go a long way to ease their minds." He sips at his coffee and wonders what Messi's thinking. "Alright?"

Messi's eyes go from Sergio's phone back to his toast. "Alright."

*****

"I'm going to ask you a very personal question," Sergio says as they sit out on the deck that night. They've settled into a sort of a nightly routine, which includes a drink out on the deck. Coffee sometimes, wine others, or something stronger if they feel like it. Tonight it's wine--a very good red, at that--and Sergio's moving the glass around in his hand as he looks over at Messi in earnest. "You don't... you don't have to answer."

Messi sips his own wine. "If anyone has the right to ask me personal questions at this point, it's you," he simply says, though his face slides into that typical unreadable mask. "And I think you're aware of that."

Sergio rolls his eyes.

"Alright then," Sergio says slowly. He wets his lips with the wine once more, bare feet sliding against the deck restlessly. His conversation with Piqué is still running around in his brain, and then what Marcelo had said about Neymar. "I just thought, since we're continuing to get to know each other, we should probably talk about some of--," he waves his hand, "--our history." Then he clarifies. "Sexual history." And when Messi stares at him, still blank, Sergio clears his throat. "Are you a virgin, Leo?"

Messi's whole face changes at the question, with what looks to be uncomfortable laughter spilling out of him until he's nearly bright red with embarrassment. "What? Do you think I'm some sort of monk?" The 'you idiot' is implied, but not said.

Sergio finds himself laughing too, relief flooding out of him without having realized how much he was worried about the answer. "I'm sorry," he says, once they've both calmed down some and Messi's taking deep breaths. Sergio just shrugs. "I'd heard... conflicting things, let's say... And I just wanted to check."

Messi smiles at him, and there's fondness there, Sergio's sure. "Thank you for that, then," he says gently, hesitating. "I'm sorry too, I didn't mean to laugh at you like that. Especially if you were trying to be kind and careful and considerate. Which I think you were." He looks down at his coffee and then back up at Sergio again. "Which I think you are most of the time."

Sergio's not sure why, but whenever Messi says something nice to him, he doesn't know how to act.

"I wouldn't say that I'm incredibly experienced," Messi continues. "If we're being... completely honest, that is. And I should be, with you, though it's hard for me to..." He blushes, but it's enough to be seen in the dim light. And then he hesitates, the tip of his tongue touching his upper lip for a second. "I've always kept my private life as private as possible. But um, you could probably guess that Kun and I, of course--. He was my first crush, you know. And we--well, when we were younger. And... a few times when we were not so young. When we both needed comfort."

Sergio feels his grip tighten on his coffee mug but he nods. He'd heard that ages ago, the rumors about Messi and Agüero swirling about every international break. And he certainly can imagine Messi needing comfort here and there over the years. "You don't have to explain." Sergio's relationship with Piqué had started in quite the same way. "I understand," Sergio says quietly. "I really do."

*****

Sergio stays home from training the next morning, still thinking about his talk with Messi. It's not that he's dying to have sex with him. Because while yes, he can appreciate Messi's more attractive qualities--slim waist, interesting tattoos, gorgeous ass--he knows it's important to build a foundation first. Messi's his soulmate, which means he's perfect for Sergio. And Sergio is willing to work to keep him happy.

That said, the sex stuff will eventually factor in there. And Sergio would rather be prepared as opposed to unprepared.

"Wanna work out for a while?" he asks Messi over breakfast, stuffing the rest of a banana into his mouth. He chews noisily and then swallows most of it down in a gulp. "I've got to at least do some cardio today since I'm staying home and missing training. Otherwise, you'll end up running rings around me next clásico. And we can't have that, can we?"

Messi snorts and finishes his usual toast with dulce de leche, seeming amiable. "I already run rings around you," he retorts half-heartedly as they head downstairs. He borrows some new t-shirts and shorts from Sergio, and they dig up a pair of sneakers that will fit him. In no time at all, they're both jogging on the treadmills down in the gym, feet thumping in time as Sergio's playlist starts to play over the speakers.

"So, Agüero, huh?" Sergio asks, kicking himself as soon as it comes out of his mouth.

Messi looks over at him incredulously. "What about him? You don't like him? Everybody likes him."

"Well, he played for Atléti, so... It's been a while since then, though. So I guess he's okay. I don't really know him well," Sergio says, trying to decide what else to say now that he opened this can of worms. "But, I'm just curious. You said that you and he were close. I mean, that's obvious, but... What made you two get together? If you don't mind me asking."

Messi half laughs, looking away from Sergio and staring out of the window as he continues to run on the treadmill. "Kun's great. We clicked right away," he says smiling, apparently untroubled by the question. "They thought we might be rivals, since we were both so young and both reasonably talented, but that was ridiculous. Neither of us played the same position, really, and together we were unstoppable."

"Yeah," Sergio prods, wanting something other than what Messi normally says in interviews, "but what made you get *together*." He wiggles his eyebrows up and down even though Messi isn't looking at him. His tone should really be enough to imply what he's asking. It's not much more than normal locker room banter, though it might be a little inappropriate to talk about this so soon.

The thing is, Sergio wants to know. He really wants to know.

Messi shakes his head, blush creeping up his face. Either that or he's red already from the exertion. "Me and Kun? Well, Kun's... He's just so kind, so happy. Loves to smile, to laugh. Loves to make everyone around him laugh. A genuinely good person who cares about everyone, and I just gravitated toward him. It was hard not to." His voice is full of fondness, and Sergio's just about to say that's still not what he's really asking, when Messi coughs. "But if you mean--he's strong," he finally blurts out, steadfastly looking forward, eyes firmly on the window. "He's... That's what... That's what I like."

"Yeah?" Sergio asks, trying not to sound too interested, trying to hide his growing grin.

"Yeah," Messi says, turning the speed up on his treadmill until he's beginning to sprint and has no breath left to spend on talking.

Sergio takes the hint. And matches him.

And if he chooses to spend some time with the weights after he's finished the treadmill? Well, that's his own business.

*****

The statements get released that day, as expected. Social media continues to blow up with some people still saying it can’t possibly be real. Sergio posts the picture of Messi to his Instagram account, watching with glee as his fans and then Messi's and then the rest of the football world freak the fuck out. It also causes a flood of genuine good wishes, which Sergio occasionally chooses to read aloud to Messi.

“'I hope Messi treats you the way you deserved to be treated, Sese,'” Sergio recites, winking at Messi across the room. “'And maybe try to convince him to move to Madrid while you’re at it,' writes Sergio4evaRM.” He pretends to think it over. “What do you say, Leo? Doesn’t seem like such a bad idea, huh?”

Messi just shakes his head, focusing on cutting up tomatoes. He’s already done the garlic and onions and had cilantro up next. His knife moves across the cutting board in rhythmic strokes, eventually sliding everything into a bowl next to him.

“Oh, here’s another,” Sergio continues, kicking his feet up on the kitchen table. He drums his fingers as on his knee. “'Capi, now that you and Messi are together, please tell him to play for us.'” He flicks his eyes over at Messi. “That’s from Ramos13486. Seems to be a perfectly objective third party, so maybe I should listen.”

Messi moves over to the fridge. “Do you have any limes? Or lime juice, really, that’ll work in a pinch.” He scans the shelves, reaching out and finding the bottle of lime juice. “Never mind, found it. How old is this?” he asks, looking for an expiration date. "Oh, good, it's new."

“I feel like these people either don’t know you at all, or they’ve greatly overestimated my powers of persuasion,” Sergio muses, skimming down pages and pages of comments. He frowns as he sees a bunch of not-so-nice ones, knowing his PR team will deal with it at some point. “And some are just plain assholes,” he mutters.

“Why? What are they saying?” Messi asks, stirring his salsa and adding more lime juice than is probably necessary.

Sergio shuts his Instagram and tosses his phone across the table. “What? Who? What? Nothing. Never mind. When is this salsa gonna be done? Because I’m about to start eating the chips right out of the bag.”

Messi rolls his eyes and brings over the bowl. “Here, tell me what you think,” he says as he holds a spoon out for Sergio to taste.

There’s definitely too much lime.

“It’s good,” Sergio lies through his teeth. If he eats enough chips it’ll cover up the taste, he’s sure. Or maybe he can get a beer and—

Messi sets the bowl down and leans his hip against the table. “You’re a shit liar,” he says conversationally, crossing his arms. His armband is still hiding his soul mark, but Sergio's getting used to that by now. And while Sergio is thinking about the best way to answer, Messi leans down and brushes his lips against his. “It’s cute that you try.”

*****

"So he kissed you?" Cris confirms, voice on speaker while Sergio finishes the sit-ups he's doing down in the gym. Messi's watching some newly released zombie monstrosity up in the entertainment room and Sergio's slipped away without much fuss. A little at odds with himself, he'd decided to get in another short workout session before bed. "Kissed you unexpectedly without any kind of prompting? I think we're making progress, here."

"It's not like there's a script to follow," Sergio pants, touching his elbows to his knees and then going down on his back again. "Or that we're on a timetable. I don't know how you can measure any sort of progress in a situation like this. What are you comparing it to? A typical soulmate match?"

"Well, I don't know. But yeah, but the last time you kissed, he ran away, so... Baby steps. Did he run away this time?" Cris asks, sounding like he's trying not to laugh. "I'm guessing not, since you'd sound angrier otherwise."

Sergio sits up again, taking a breather. "No," he admits, feeling a little happy about that. "I mean, he surprised me. It was just so out of the blue, so quick. I barely had time to enjoy it before it was over again. He just walked away and started to clean the cutting board in the sink like everything was normal." He closes his eyes and groans. "I don't understand him at all."

"Honestly, Sese," Cris says, "I don't think anybody really does?" There's a burst of laughter. "He fucking hardly ever says how he really feels. It used to annoy the hell outta me when they sat us next to each other. Gotta say that I'm glad he's your problem instead of mine."

Sergio's a bit miffed. "He's not my problem," he protests, as he collapses on his back and stares up at the ceiling. "But... what do I do now?"

"You just told me there's no script," Cris says, still very amused. "And you're right. So, there isn't really any specific thing you're supposed to do next." He pauses. "This is all part of the process. Isn't it? Getting to know him? Figuring out how to read him and his blank face? Deciding how the rest of your lives are going to be? I don't know, seriously, you're the one with the soulmate. Not me."

"Does it sound stupid if I say that I never thought I'd get this far?" Sergio asks as he scratches the side of his face. "I never thought I'd find my soulmate, let alone it would be Messi, let alone he'd be willing to kiss me." He scrunches up his nose. "I mean, truthfully, the guy's not half bad, Cris. I thought it would be a nightmare, but now I think I might have lucked out."

"So what's the problem?" Cris asks.

"He puts pineapple on his pizza for one thing," Sergio grumbles, finally sitting up and stretching. "Overcooks his meat, for another. Can't cook at all, really, for a third. God, he can't even make salsa right. I can't understand how anyone ever let him near a kitchen growing up. He should be banned for life from ever attempting to enter one."

"Is that all?" Cris asks dryly.

"Likes movies with blood and gore," Sergio throws out, ticking it off on his finger like it means something. "Hates Madrid. Plays for Barcelona." He sighs. "Maybe those last two are the worst, eh? I haven't even really thought about them until now. We never talked about it. How are we supposed to survive the season? Playing against each other? Not just during el clásico, but competing for la Liga? I mean, I'll be hoping for him to lose every week... That just sounds so shitty."

"In a way," Cris ventures, "it's the same as being friends with the guys on the national team, though. Don't you think? You hate their guts on the pitch and then love them the rest of the time. Besides, you managed okay with Piqué all these years, didn't you?"

"Well, the last time I saw him he punched me in the face so..." Sergio snorts, grabbing a bottle of water from the mini-fridge. "But I get what you're saying."

"I really think the rivalry aspect will be okay," Cris says. "I'd worry a lot more over the pineapple pizza thing. I mean, really? That's disgusting."

Sergio gags. "You're telling me."

*****

Sergio strips off his shirt and wipes his face. He's in desperate need of a shower after his workout, sweating in the most disgusting way. Tossing the shirt over his shoulder, he runs his hand through his hair and sighs. "Anything in particular you want for dinner?" he asks Messi, once it's clear the television is off. Sergio says a little prayer of thanks that the stupid zombie movie was a short one, reaching for a water bottle.

Messi licks his lips, reaching for his own bottle of water on the coffee table. He takes a long gulp, staring at Sergio in a very strange way. "No," he eventually says, voice a little croaky, immediately taking another gulp. "Whatever you want."

Sergio hums, drinking his own water. "Takeout. Chinese?" he suggests, stomach already growling. "Hey, are you coming down with something? You sound a bit off." He pats his belly lightly, trying not to be embarrassed by the noises it's making, although Messi's eyes are already fixated on it so it's clear he's pretty loud. "Sorry, hungry, obviously."

"I'm fine," Messi mumbles, voice still not completely normal. He clears his throat and shakes his head. "Fine," he says again. "And Chinese is good," he agrees. He takes another long gulp of water, finishing the bottle and then wiping his mouth. "I like... it."

There's a flush in his cheeks and his eyes are bright, so Sergio wonders if he's got a fever.

"You pick what you want," Sergio says, grabbing a menu for his favorite place out of the folder in the kitchen. He hands it to Messi, wondering if he should fetch the thermometer. "Call it in when you're ready? I'll take beef and broccoli with fried rice, and an egg roll, please. They'll put it all on my card. I'm gonna head up and shower in the meantime."

He contemplates Messi again, who seems to have zoned out. "You're sure you're alright?" He leans down and puts his palm on Messi's forehead. Truthfully, he's not quite sure how to tell if someone has a fever this way--it was a talent his mother had but Sergio had never learned. "Would you rather just go to bed?" he asks, dropping his hand when Messi looks up at him with wide eyes.

"To bed?" Messi repeats slowly, biting his lip as he stares up at Sergio. He opens his mouth to say something and then shuts it, flicking his eyes over Sergio for a moment. "Oh, no, I'm fine. I'll order the food. You can go shower."

Sergio's not entirely convinced, but. He runs a hand through his sweaty hair. "Alright," he agrees, deciding he'll just keep an eye on Messi. He can probably bully him into going to bed early in any case, and maybe a little food will do him good. "Don't forget the egg roll," he tosses over his shoulder as he turns on his heel.

*****

"Hot or not?" Isco asks in the locker room the next morning as he leans over to show Sergio a picture of some guy he doesn't know on his phone.

Sergio mulls it over. "Eh, not bad," he decides, waving his hand in the hair to indicate middling. "Style is good, but the hair could be better," he adds, as Isco nods knowingly in agreement. "If it were a little longer on top, not so shaved on the sides... Definitely has potential."

Isco scrolls over to a new picture. "How about this?" he asks, showing the same man again. This time the man is shirtless, standing next to a pool and shiny with what Sergio assumes is suntan lotion. He's wearing sunglasses and smiling happily. "You can't tell me this isn't hot."

Sergio concedes the point. "Well, that's different," he admits, finding it hard to tear his eyes away from the gleaming muscles in front of him. "You get any half-fit guy, strip off his shirt and get him all glistening and there's no way you can see him as anything other than--" He stops mid-sentence, suddenly having an epiphany. "Holy fucking shit."

Isco pulls his phone back protectively. "What??"

"Not you, idiot," Sergio murmurs, thinking back to the night before. He realizes now--and only now, not last night, because he's a fucking dumbass--that when he'd been standing sweatily next to the couch and rambling on about Chinese food and takeout, that Messi had been staring at *him*. Messi had been staring at his stomach--not because of the noise, but because... "It's just..."

Messi hadn't been sick.

Oh, no, Messi had been flushed for a very different reason, indeed.

Sergio grins, making Isco back away in alarm. "Exactly what I said," Sergio says, though he can't seem to shake the smile off his face. He's fucking flattered as hell, knowing that Messi was looking at him like that. He laughs, feeling so stupid to think that Messi's dry throat and bright eyes had been because of a cold.

Isco looks confused, going back to his phone and very clearly deciding not to ask Sergio any more questions.

But that's just fine for Sergio. Because he's already plotting what to do with this new information. "Baby steps," he murmurs to himself, catching sight of his reflection in the mirror. That Sergio looks at him knowingly.

Sergio just winks.

*****

Barcelona has the Saturday game, and Messi's obviously feeling nervous about not being there--no matter how much he attempts to play it cool.

Sergio graciously gets the channel all set up for him, pushes him down onto the couch and tells him to relax. "It's not important," Sergio tells him. And he doesn't have to lie, because it's true. "Season's practically over. Everything's decided. It means nothing."

Messi's tense under his hands, but he settles back against the cushions and pretends he's listening. "I probably should have gone back," he mutters, as they both ignore the way the announcers are talking about their soul marks matching during el clásico. "Everybody said it was okay that I stayed... But I should have gone back. It'll become some big thing about how I don't care about the team and suck as captain."

Sergio collapses down next to him and shrugs. He can't be sorry. Not because he wants Barcelona to lose and Messi being here could lead to that happen, but because the two of them needed the time to settle things, to try to figure out how the hell this has all happened. "Eh, if you guys win, nobody will say a thing. And if you lose, well, give it a few weeks and they'll start talking about next season and it won't matter." He nudges his foot against Messi's. "Let's just watch."

And that's really the end of that, because Suárez scores two in quick succession and Messi's relief is more than evident.

"He was offside!" Sergio cries, nearly spilling his beer with how incensed he is at the blatant cheating after the second goal. "Look at this," he says, standing up and moving over to the television as they show yet another replay. He points to the last defender and then the way Suárez is a full step in front of him. "Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. I swear to god, he's paying the ref!" With every word, he taps on the screen.

But when he turns away from the television and back at Messi, he freezes.

"What are you--?" Sergio asks cautiously.

Messi's got his phone pointed in his direction. "Didn't you say that I should post something on Instagram?" he asks, smiling calmly. "Don't worry, it's not a video," he adds, looking down at the phone and starting to type. "Just you angrily trying to break your tv."

"You can't post that," Sergio protests, knowing he'll get shit for watching Barcelona--no matter his bond with Messi. Although if he's pointing to the obvious offside, maybe it would be okay? But then again, Messi's a notoriously awful picture-taker, so Sergio can't trust him to post anything that's even in focus. He probably didn't even add a filter. "Alright, well, let me see it first." He sets his beer on the table and looms over Messi, trying to grab the phone. "How do I look?" And then when Messi jerks the phone away, "What, hey, Leo! Let me see it!"

But Messi's a strong little fucker.

He refuses to release the phone and if anything, tightens his grip as he turns onto his side and tries to shield the screen from view. Sergio's arms are around his waist at this point, trying to pull his wrists away. "I'm not finished! Stop! I have to write the caption," Messi says, trying to shake Sergio off, but he's laughing. "I'm posting it!" he shouts as Sergio finally falls on top of him in an effort to try to pry the phone from his hands. "Ha! It's done!"

Messi's still laughing, gleefully now, even as Sergio presses him face first down into the couch.

"Well, let me see it, then," Sergio says, and Messi mumbles something uncomplimentary while handing the phone over his shoulder reluctantly. As pictures go, it isn't the worst one Sergio's seen of himself. He's blocking the part of the screen with Suárez, but he's gesturing angrily with Barcelona in the background. It might be okay. The caption though... 'Watching with my other half. Let's go, Luis! Let's go team!'

Sergio feels something tighten in his chest. He doesn't know what to say. Messi's still laughing quietly to himself beneath him, sprawled out on the cushions while Sergio's leaning on him. And it's all so casual and comfortable and normal that Sergio nearly--

"Yes! Luis!" Messi says then, head turned toward the television.

Sergio forgets what he was going to do and turns sullenly to see Suárez score his third of the day. It's a free header inside the box and it makes him grumble, annoyed with the center backs of the opposing team. "He was wide open," Sergio says, slowly pushing himself back over to his side of the couch as he watches the replay. "Look at that. Just parked himself on the spot and had all the time in the world."

Worse than the replay, though, is Suárez' celebration. He holds up ten fingers and then blows a kiss. It's for Messi. Sergio knows it is.

And he finds that he really, really, doesn't like it.

*****

Sergio likes it even less when Suárez facetimes Messi sometime after the game.

They're still on the couch, watching the postgame show and the commentators drool all over Barcelona's performance. There's talk about it being Suárez' game of the season, and how the assist Alba gave for the third goal showed why he was one of the best left-backs in the world. In the middle of one of the pundits listing the reasons why Barcelona's ter Stegen is irreplaceable, Sergio rolls his eyes so much that he's afraid they're going to get stuck.

When Messi's cell rings, Messi lets out a little, "Oh," of excitement. Suárez's name and face flash across the screen and Messi looks delighted. "Do you want me to--?" Messi asks, motioning toward the kitchen like he thinks he has to leave.

Sergio waves a hand. "No, no," he says, unbothered. He wants Messi to think of this as his house too, and in any case, he would never make someone leave the room if they wanted to talk on the phone. Especially since they're not watching anything in particular. But as Messi answers and Suárez starts blathering, Sergio decides to take his empty bottle to the kitchen and get another one.

That accomplished, he dillydallies to give Messi some time to get all the pleasantries out. Sergio opens the fridge and putters around for a bit, wavering on whether or not he's hungry. Finally, he decides on some cut up red peppers and carrots that he can dip into a container of hummus. That's easy enough to set on a tray with some crackers and cheese in case Messi wants anything.

Messi's still talking to Suárez as Sergio carries it all back into the tv room, but it's quietly and sincerely and Sergio feels uncomfortable intruding for a hot second. Then he decides that he lives there and Messi was going to just talk in front of him anyways, so he continues in and sets his tray on the table.

It's just in time to hear Suárez ask, "Who kisses better?"

Sergio pauses, frozen dipping a piece of red pepper into his hummus. He's not sure if what he just heard is really what he just heard. He raises his eyebrows as Messi immediately turns red and hisses, "Luis!", clearly wanting Suárez to know that Sergio has returned to the room.

Sergio tries not to laugh as it sinks in that Messi's been talking about them kissing. That's definitely a good thing, means that Messi's either getting more comfortable with it or wrestling with his growing attraction. Either way, more progress. He smothers his laugh, but can't hide his smile. It grows as he grins at Messi because Messi's refusing to look at him at all except out of the corner of his eyes. Sergio's enjoying himself, with Barcelona's win forgotten, contentedly chewing on his red pepper while he turns back to flip through a few channels.

Except then Suárez continues, "Come on, Leo! Tell me, honestly. Who's the better kisser? Me or him?"

And Sergio starts choking on the red pepper.

*****

"Ew," Luka says.

"Ditto. But, hmm, that explains a lot," Marcelo says slowly, pulling his foot up onto the bench so that he can tie his laces. The locker room is always noisy before a game, but still, he's managed to keep his voice quiet over where he's sitting next to Sergio and Luka. "I wouldn't have guessed, but now that you say it... Well, it makes sense. I wonder if Ney knew?"

Sergio doesn't respond.

Luka leans back against the locker. "I mean, I don't get it, but... Anyways, why are you so upset about this? It isn't that you're threatened by their relationship, is it? Because I don't think there's really a comparison to make." And when Sergio looks at him questioningly, Luka shrugs. "Soulmates are soulmates, Sergio. I can't be jealous of who Ivan was with before me, because I know he's happy with me now. And that's all there is to it."

"Yeah but you and Rakitić actually liked each other before," Sergio grumbles, rubbing his eyes. He takes a deep breath and then looks at the clock, knowing that they'll have to go out and start warming up soon. "I mean, for all I know, Messi and Suárez were banging up until el clásico."

Luka looks at him disapprovingly.

Marcelo raises an eyebrow. "And Piqué wouldn't have mentioned it?"

Sergio throws his arms up in frustration. "Well, I don't know what to think now! Piqué says Messi didn't sleep around like the two of us did, so that means anyone he's been with was--I don't know, about a deeper connection or some bullshit. Right? But I thought he'd at least have given me a heads up about this."

"Or Piqué didn't know," Luka suggests, putting a hand on Sergio's knee to try to calm him down. "Messi seems rather close-lipped," he pauses, "excuse me, pun not intended."

Marcelo makes a face. "Well, here's the thing. Messi didn't mention it before, Sese. And honestly? The guy isn't really a liar, right? You said he mentioned Agüero, which means he probably thought of Agüero as being the most important relationship he had in the past. So his thing with Suárez? Hell, maybe it was just kissing. A little fun, regardless of what Piqué said about Messi's history. Did you ever think of that?"

Sergio had, in fact, not thought of that.

Sergio had thought a great deal of other things. Things including how Messi said he liked that Agüero was strong. And how, under pressure, Sergio might admit that Suárez was also strong--the same body type, the same style.

Messi liked number nines, apparently, Sergio thought disgustedly. Next, he was gonna hear that Messi hooked up with Karim and Diego Costa or some shit like that.

"Besides," Luka says, standing up and twisting his body from side to side, "weren't you and Piqué sleeping together up until el clásico?" He knows very well that they were, so he just gives Sergio a look. "Did Messi know that for sure? Have you told him?" And then, "I think you two need to have another discussion because if you're jealous and upset, I don't think it's fair to assume he's perfectly okay with everything."

Sergio groans. "I hate you," he says, standing up too. Luka beams at him, and Sergio waves a hand in his face. "Game first. Messi second."

*****

Messi's out in the back when Sergio gets home, walking barefoot through the grass with a ball at his feet. Sergio watches him drag it this way and that, finding a sort of beauty in how effortless it is--when it's not against him, that is. Still, Madrid had won today and Sergio had scored right at the end to make that happen, so he could afford to be appreciative.

"How did it go?" Messi asks, sensing his presence and looking up. The ball comes to a gradual stop and his toes touch the top once more before he side foots it over in Sergio's direction.

"You didn't watch?" Sergio asks, feeling a surge of disappointment shoot through him as he catches the ball softly with his instep. It's followed by a whisper of anger that Messi couldn't be bothered, but that dissipates when Messi smiles at him.

"I'm just kidding," Messi says kindly. "Of course I watched." And then with some enthusiasm, "I wanted you to lose, of course, but damn that was a good goal." He shakes his head ruefully. "I mean you were talking about Luis being wide open yesterday, but hell, if there's one person not to leave unmarked in the box in the 93rd minute... You'd think everybody would have learned that lesson by now."

Sergio taps the ball from foot to foot, torn between being flattered and being jealous at the reminder of Suárez. "Agreed," he finally says, when he realizes he's taking too long and Messi's waiting. "Well, I'm starving," he adds, kicking the ball back to Messi, "so should we eat?" His stomach growls and he thinks about what he'd seen in the fridge this morning. "There's definitely some leftover chicken... Tacos?"

Messi pops the ball up to his knees, juggling a few times before hitting it higher so he can balance on his head. "Sounds great." He looks up at it with crossed eyes before bringing it back down to his feet neatly. "Oh, and we still have some salsa left!"

Sergio's mouth is already puckering as he remembers the lime. "Yes, yes we do," he says, trying to think of how he can spoon it down the sink before Messi realizes. It'll have to be discreetly, so as not to hurt his feelings, he thinks as Messi crosses the lawn and steps into his space. "Perfect."

"You're still a shit liar," Messi says as he brushes by Sergio to head inside. "And I can definitely tell you're planning something," he throws over his shoulder. "If anything happens to the salsa, I'll know." It's said with a threatening tone, which just makes it sound silly coming from Messi.

Sergio makes a face, mimicking him behind his back. "Oh, you'll know, will you?" he asks, continuing inside behind Messi. "Gosh, that frightens me to bits." He fake shudders.

Messi turns around and Sergio nearly smacks into him. "Did you just say 'to bits'?" Messi asks as Sergio grabs his shoulders and steadies them so they don't fall. He looks amused, tugging on Sergio's shirt playfully around the ribs before dropping it. "You crack me up. I never thought you'd be..."

Sergio lets go of Messi's shoulders and waits. "I'd be, what?"

Messi shrugs. "I don't know? Funny." He has to tilt his head back to look Sergio in the eye. "It's nice, I mean. I like that you're funny." He raises up on his tiptoes with a smile, hand against Sergio's stomach, leaning against him comfortably.

Sergio shouldn't say it. Shouldn't ask it. Shouldn't think it. Shouldn't even wonder. But he does, of course, he does, because he's a fucking idiot and he can't go one full day without sticking his foot in his mouth. "Am I funnier than him?" he asks, shifting his weight, knowing it's wrong even as he asks it.

Messi doesn't get it at first, bless his little heart. "What? Who?" he asks, dropping down to be flat-footed again.

Sergio should leave it alone. "Who's funnier?" he asks instead. "Me or Suárez?" And if there's a nastiness to the way he says Suárez' name, that's unintentional. "Can't blame me for wondering. After all, you've gotta be making comparisons between the two of us, right? You have to be thinking if what you have now is as good as what you left behind, right?"

Messi takes a step away from him, frowning now, all levity gone. "I didn't--I wasn't--I'm not comparing you to anyone, Sergio," he says flatly. His face smooths out too, his expression turning to the one he uses for the press interviews, the one that doesn't give anything away while at the same time says that he doesn't want to be doing this. "I don't think I'm very hungry as it turns out," he adds, taking another step back. "Might turn in early. You should eat without me."

And then he walks away and leaves Sergio standing there.

"Fuck."

*****

Cris is quiet for a minute after Sergio blurts the whole story out. "Jesus, Sese, you're an idiot. And an asshole, I think. Why do you have to be so goddamn nosy all the time? What does it matter if he slept with Suárez? I mean, gross, but what does it matter? Does it really change anything at this point?"

Sergio's too frustrated to really say what he means. "It's not that he slept with Suárez," he finally gets out. "It's that he didn't tell me about it! I asked him if he was a virgin and he said he'd been with Agüero. He didn't say anything else about other people!" He thuds his head against the fridge, leaving it there so that he can feel the cool metal against his forehead.

"So? Did he say it was just Agüero? Did he specifically say he'd been with one person only, for his entire life?" Cris prods. "Again, not that it was really any of your business, was it?"

"Well, no," Sergio says, closing his eyes and thinking back. "But Piqué said--"

"I think that's your problem right there," Cris interrupts. "Who the hell cares what Piqué said?" he says scornfully. "If you want to know something about Messi, ask Messi. If you want to know something about Piqué, ask Piqué. I feel like this is a no brainer. They're different people, Sese, and it doesn't matter that they've been teammates and friends for years. That friendship doesn't mean they know *everything* about each other, and nor should it. There's plenty of stuff I don't know about you!"

"I didn't mean for this to be so--," Sergio cuts himself off and takes a deep breath. "I only wanted to know because of Piqué warning me to be careful. I just wanted to make sure that Messi was okay with everything. That I didn't push him too fast into something he wasn't comfortable with. Seriously. That's it." He straightens up and opens the fridge to stare at the chicken he was going to use in tacos. "I don't think it's fair that now I'm the bad guy here," he says sullenly.

Cris just laughs at him. "You're not a bad guy. But you are the one who messed up. So you'd better start being the apologetic guy pretty darn soon, or you're gonna lose all the progress you've been making with him. And then you'll both be miserable when you could've been happy."

Sergio closes the fridge. He's no longer hungry either. "What should I do, then?"

"Are you kidding me? You just--," Cris pauses. "Go fucking make up with him, idiot!"

*****

Sergio waits three days to knock on Messi's door. Despite living in the same house, they haven't seen each other since Messi walked away from him. And in that time, Sergio's tried to find the words to apologize. And the courage to bang on the door. Finally, he's managed to make himself do it. What's the worst that could happen? Messi tells him to go away? Still, he doesn't want that. At all. Bracing himself for disappointment, he knocks.

And what do you know? Messi tells him to come in.

Sergio takes a deep breath and enters, closing the door softly behind him. Messi's sitting crosslegged on the edge of the bed, on the phone with somebody, but when Sergio comes in he ends the call. He doesn't look angry or anything. In fact, he's wearing that phony blank expression as if he's got his shields up in preparation for whatever Sergio has come to say.

"I'm sorry," Sergio says first, needing to get that out. Because the truth is that he is sorry, and he didn't mean to make Messi upset. He just couldn't control himself. It probably won't be the last time he says something like that Messi, but he'll always apologize if he's in the wrong. Which he is, in this case. "I shouldn't have said anything about Suárez at all. If you want to tell me about you and him, that's up to you, but, Leo, I'm really very sorry."

Messi's face unfreezes slightly. "Do you want me to tell you about me and him?" he asks.

Sergio bites his tongue, having not really expected that. He doesn't want to know... but he also really does. At the very least, he needs to know what he's up against. He needs to know if he has to be competing with someone--the whole soulmate thing aside. "If you don't," he finally says, chewing on his lip, "I'll always wonder."

Messi weighs that, eyes flicking over Sergio as if considering his sincerity. "Alright," he allows, swallowing once, tilting his head as if to invite Sergio to sit next to him. "I don't know why you're so hung up on it," he says once Sergio sits gingerly beside him. "Luis and I haven't been together for quite some time now."

It's still so weird to think of Messi and Suárez in a relationship at all. Suárez is the most unappealing person in the world. Sergio just cannot figure it out. "When was it?" Sergio asks, trying to think back to if there'd been anything on Instagram he might have seen that would have indicated some sort of... fraternization.

Messi waves a hand, a little of the tension leaving his body. "After Neymar left." He laughs, shifting to turn more in Sergio's direction. "It was unexpected--Neymar leaving, that is. Well, I guess me and Luis getting together was unexpected too... But, we were both hurting. It just made sense for us to turn to each other. It was only for about a year. Things got too complicated around the World Cup and we decided just to continue on as friends."

"You didn't mention him before, is all," Sergio says, trying to explain why he's even bothered. "You mentioned Agüero," he explains, watching Messi's cheeks turn pink at the name. "And I thought he was the only one that had..." He can't think of a better way to say 'fucked you,' so he doesn't say it. "I just didn't get it. Why you wouldn't mention him. To me."

"Do you want a list?" Messi asks, pressing his lips together and looking put out.

"No," Sergio says, feeling even more like an ass. "I'm sorry, that's not what I meant. None of this is what I meant. I'm saying it all wrong." He collapses backward onto the bed, spreading his arms out and staring up at the guest room ceiling. "Piqué implied you were inexperienced and that's my fault for believing him and letting what he said color my behavior."

Messi sighs and leans backward too until they're both flat on the bed next to each other. Then he turns on his side and props himself up with his elbow. "It would be a short list," he offers quietly. "It would be Kun and Luis. That's it. They're the only two people I've been with in my entire life."

Sergio turns his head. "Alright," he says softly. "Thank you for telling me." It truly doesn't matter if there were people in Messi's life before this. It only matters that they're all gone now. He stares at Messi, trying to figure out what he's thinking. "So you're... completely unattached, you might say."

Messi's lips quirk up slightly. "Unattached except for the owner of this," he says, tapping his armband twice to indicate Sergio's words underneath. He takes a deep breath. "And I can't believe I have to ask this, but I assume that you are also unattached? Because I know that you and Geri..." he trails off and Sergio feels a surge of guilt for not bringing this up sooner.

"Me and Piqué are finished," Sergio says, mirroring Messi's posture by holding himself up on his elbow. "It was never anything serious, just for comfort, and at this moment he's the furthest thing from my mind."

Messi doesn't say anything immediately in response to that, but there's a quiet acceptance. A touch of approval in the way he ducks his head and absorbs what Sergio has just said. "And if I asked you for a list?"

Sergio nods. "I'd give you one. Although, it's quite a bit longer than two people and it might take me a little time to write them all out." He'll do it though. If that's what Messi wants, he'll do it. When Messi doesn't immediately reply, Sergio smiles gently at him. "Do you want it?"

Messi's lips quick again like he's just heard something funny. "No," he finally says, leaning in toward Sergio's mouth. And then in a whisper, "I just wanted to know that you'd give it to me."

*****

Messi comes down for tacos that night.

Not that Sergio had to do much to get him to come down with the way both of their stomachs started growling after awhile. Whatever tension that had been between them seems to have disappeared, and the back and forth conversation has come back. (The salsa does end up on the table, but Sergio just chooses to ignore it.)

"You're like him, you know," Messi offers, talking with food in his mouth like a heathen. "Luis," he confirms, when Sergio raises an eyebrow.

"What? No! How?" Sergio splutters, nearly spitting out a whole mouthful of tequila. He reaches for a napkin and dabs his shirt, trying to catch any droplets that might have escaped. "I am not. Take that back right now," he adds, torn between laughing hysterically and being outraged.

Messi shrugs, smiling easily. "I'm not an idiot," he says, dipping a chip into the salsa and then crunching down on it. "It's been pointed out to me that I have a type," he admits. "And while you might be a little different... er, um, physically," he says, blushing, "your personality is very similar to Luis'."

Sergio mentally adds Messi's ability to compare people to the list of things that he's bad at. And he wants to come back to the physical part, but he has to address this right now.

"Name one thing that's similar," Sergio says, crossing his arms. Because this is ridiculous and he will not stand for it. Not in his own home and not--

"You're both very funny," Messi says, interrupting his thoughts. "Quick-witted. A little blunt in your humor, but it's funny. You might make fun of someone else, but it's never so far as bullying. You can take it as well as you dish it out. You like to laugh, but you like to make everyone else laugh, too."

Sergio points his finger at Messi and pauses. "That's..."

"You're both kind," Messi continues. "You go out of your way to make sure that other people are happy and comfortable around you. For example, you stocked mate practically the first day you bought me home. You've given me anything I could possibly want or need while staying here. And you've done it all without a single complaint."

"That's just basic hospitality," Sergio says, fumbling for a way to turn this around.

"You're both cautious," Messi says then, sipping at his own drink thoughtfully. "While you might also throw yourselves headfirst into things on the field, off the field you is very different for you. You try to think things through and get advice before doing anything rash." He runs his finger around the rim of his glass. "None of these things are bad, Sergio."

"I don't like being compared to him," Sergio finally says honestly. Is there another way to say that he hates Suárez with nearly every fiber of his being?

Messi's finger circles the rim of his glass over and over, finally coming to a stop. "It's funny, do you know why Luis and I finally came together?" He runs his hand through his hair and looks over at Sergio directly. "I know I said it was because of Neymar, and it was. But I mean, crossing from friends into something else still was a huge step..."

Sergio sips his tequila again, guardedly.

Messi licks his lips and looks embarrassed. "He kissed me. And I looked at him and waited. I waited for myself to react poorly, to push him away and tell him I didn't want it--just as I had when Neymar tried all those years ago. Just as I had with others before him. But the way he looked at me, and the way he spoke to me..." Messi turns his eyes to his glass, clearly still embarrassed. "I knew then, that he would never say the words that were printed on my arm. That he was safe."

*****

The days pass. But what Messi said never really leaves Sergio's head. As a result, he's far from calm as he lights the torches and trudges up the steps to take his usual chair on some random night out on the deck. Messi's carried out the tray with their drinks, Sergio's coffee and it's fixings next to a thermos of hot water and a gourd for mate. Messi's even added a little plate of cookies, cinnamon swirl alternating with chocolate chip if his eyes don't deceive him.

"You said he was safe," Sergio begins tentatively, holding his mug against his stomach. It's hot. A little too hot, but he'll make do. He wants to gulp it down, to give him the strength for what he wants to ask. But he forces himself to be cautious. He knows Messi will know what he means, even if the conversation was ages ago. Sergio's certainly been thinking about it all this time, and he thinks Messi might have been too.

Messi doesn't look at him, pouring the hot water slowly into his gourd and stirring the bombilla around slightly as his custom. "Wha--Luis? Yes." He doesn't add anything else to the conversation, maybe tired of it, maybe not knowing where Sergio is going with it.

"So everyone else that you pushed away throughout your life... Neymar and you know? Were they not safe?" He sips at his too-hot coffee and tries to understand. "Does this mean that you don't feel safe with me, then?" There's a pit in his stomach that isn't going away, no matter how much coffee he drinks. He's tried to make sense of what Messi said, but he's thought about it every time they've kissed or touched.

"Sergio," Messi says, shaking his head. "It's not..." He starts and then stops, trying to choose his words carefully. His eyes drift from Sergio out into the backyard, focusing on the garden before shaking his head again. "We've fought about this before. About how you had one word and how hard that was for you. About how I had this awful--," he cuts himself off and looks down at where his armband is. When he looks up at Sergio, he looks sad. "I was afraid of the type of person who would say that to me. And yeah, so anyone I thought might... I refused to get close to."

"Because it's dirty?" Sergio asks, fingers tapping on his mug. "Sexual?" He and Messi have gotten closer and closer and they've both been more than happy with how things have progressed. Kisses have come naturally, but they haven't gone much further than that.

Messi tilts his head. "Dirty, sexual, and to be completely honest with you--fucking scary. I was terrified when I was younger. It sounded violent, even once I understood what sex was. Threatening." His cheeks are red again, the ever constant blush still vivid in the darkness. "Even when I got old enough to really understand that it *could* be just banter, I still didn't like it--didn't like the idea that someone could say that to me. That my soulmate would think it was okay to say that to me. If they knew me at all, how could they think that?"

"And then I said it," Sergio says, grip tightening on his mug, feeling disgusted that he'd ever thought it funny. Especially knowing that it scared Messi this much? He's horrified. "I'm sorry, Leo," he says earnestly, setting the mug down on the table and coming over to kneel down beside Messi. He brushes his fingers against where Messi's still holding the gourd of mate. "I can't say how sorry I am."

Messi's color doesn't dissipate, but he sets the gourd down next to Sergio's mug and then boldly reaches for Sergio's hand. "I know," he says instantly. "I know, Sergio. And I forgive you, because I know you said it as a joke and I know you didn't mean it to be anything other than that." He looks serious. "I forgave you nearly as soon as you said it. I was never ever afraid of you in that way."

The tension in Sergio's body gradually decreases, and he takes a deep breath. The deck is hard on his knees and he's not as young as he used to be, so eventually, he's going to have to get up. But for now, "I'm still sorry." He looks down at where Leo's holding his hand, their fingers tangled together tightly. Very slowly, not sure if he's doing the right thing, he presses a kiss to the back of Leo's hand.

*****

Things take a while to go back completely to normal, but as more time passes, they settle back into their routine. It helps that the season is over, and vacation can finally begin. Sergio doesn't need to go to training in the morning and can sit and have long, leisurely breakfasts with Messi if he wants.

Which he does.

They talk about traveling, maybe finding a beach on some private resort where they can just enjoy the sun. Somewhere private, without tourists and fans, where they wouldn't have to worry about the press analyzing their every move. Sergio thinks about how they're going to need to buy stock in sunscreen just to keep Messi's porcelain skin protected. And then he thinks about how he wouldn't mind helping rub it into Messi's skin and his thoughts get derailed entirely.

They run on the treadmills together, fighting over the playlist nearly every day until Messi finally gives up and lets Sergio have his way. Sergio's music is better, everyone knows that, but he adds a few of Messi's favorites in there just to keep the peace. He asks about Agüero and Suárez sometimes when they're running. Not to be nosy, but just because he wants to get a fuller picture of Messi. Messi's honest with his answers--sometimes a little tooooooo honest--and then he figures out that it means he can ask about Piqué and Fernando and Sergio quickly discovers that everything has backfired on him.

Cris laughs for days when he hears.

They continue to switch off on Netflix, although Sergio refuses to watch zombie movies when it's not his turn and starts to smuggle his phone to movie nights so he can watch 'Gilligan's Island' on the down-low.

Messi's started to add to the garden in the back, completely disrupting Sergio's landscaper's plans, but nobody really stops him. It's hard to tell him no when he shows such enthusiasm, digging neat little rows all around the birdbath while he wears red and blue gardening gloves that Sergio itches to throw out. New plants show up day after day, colorful flowers and things that Sergio couldn't identify in a million years, along with all sorts of herbs and vegetables. Some of them are going to, unfortunately, make it into the terrible salsa, but Sergio finds that he's getting used to Messi's flavor choices.

Sergio buys strings of fairy lights to wrap around the railing of the deck, since they spend so much time out there now. Sure, in the daytime they don't really matter, but at night, they're a nice addition to the torches. And with the new night-blooming flowers curling around the posts, Sergio admits that everything looks quite nice. Smells a little bit like fresh mulch, but that'll go away in time.

Messi doesn't get Twitter. But he does post on Instagram a lot more often, usually to keep up with how much Sergio's posting. Or to show off his work in the garden. The red and blue gloves show up more than Sergio would like, but there's not much Sergio can do about that except casually suggest black and white filters.

Suárez likes every picture.

Sergio blocks him and unblocks him several times.

Life's not completely rosy, and they have the occasional fight just like any other couple. Sometimes it's because Messi's being a bitch, and sometimes it's because Sergio's unwilling to compromise. Mostly because Messi's being a bitch, if Sergio's being completely honest. And of course, they fight about Barcelona and Real Madrid. About all sorts of things from games that they probably shouldn't even remember, but they do, about fouls that weren't fouls and penalties that weren't penalties. About referees and other players, about tournaments and trophies.

Messi holds Barcelona's dominance in la Liga over Sergio's head and Sergio counters with Real Madrid's undeniable success in the Champions League. Luka and Rakitić are quite frequently over for dinner in an attempt to settle things, or at least demonstrate how a culé and a blanco should be able to get along. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't. Messi often tries to invite Piqué over, and Sergio gleefully informs him that he owes him a punch in the face.

Piqué does not come over.

They do end up spending the last two weeks before preseason in the Bahamas, drinking copious amounts of mixed drinks out of coconuts and jet skiing even though they're not technically allowed. They run out of sunscreen on the first day, and even though Messi doesn't care, Sergio leaves in a huff so he can take the boat over to the resort gift shop and buy more. People definitely take pictures of him as he's leaving with his hands full of said sunscreen and even though he doesn't check, he knows they end up all over the internet. As punishment, Sergio *accidentally* throws most of Messi's bathing suits into the ocean one night until only teeny tiny ones remain, and he's really very sorry about that.

Ha. Yeah right.

What he had not considered was, the smaller the bathing suit, the more area needed to be covered by sunscreen. And Messi just smiles when he asks Sergio to help rub it in. The upper back, the shoulders, the trim waist, the curve of the thigh... Sergio is very thorough.

Thankfully, Messi is happy to return the favor.

Neither of them gets a bit of sunburn the whole two weeks.

Beard burn, however...

*****

On the last day of their vacation, at that little resort gift shop, Sergio buys matching bands for them. They're not perfect, not custom, not necessarily the ones that Sergio would have chosen out of all the bands in the world, but somehow he thinks that they're just right. And that night, as they're watching the sunset over the water, their feet in the sand, Sergio gets down on his knees and holds the longer one out to Messi. "Can I?" he asks, fingers trailing over the ties to Messi's current band.

Messi smiles. And then he says, "Yes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed :) My first soulmate fic (I think??), if you can believe that!

**Author's Note:**

> As I said, I wrote this in May before my summer went to shit lol. Hope you all liked it, was fun playing around with the soulmate trope. Second part will be posted in a week or so xo


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